


The New Mexico Algorithm Part 2

by Cuzan Denbo (netherworld22)



Category: Books & Literature - Fandom, The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Enkidu - Freeform, Gilgamesh - Freeform, LGBTQ, Love, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Netherworld, Otherworld, Shaman - Freeform, Trickster - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netherworld22/pseuds/Cuzan%20Denbo
Summary: The New Mexico Algorithm Part 2 continues the retelling of the Gilgamesh epic in a contemporary US setting by an anthropologist-archaeologist. In Part 2 the antagonists are introduced: retired Marine colonel Buddy Joe Lagash is a TV evangelical involved in drug-and-gun black-marketeering and laundering the money of US Senator William Dumntzi (a member of The One Percent and target of Ethan's Black-ops against environmentally unfriendly entities) through his religious organization; and his daughter, Astarte, a psychologist who owns a corporation for breeding rodeo livestock. Protagonist, rodeo clown Ethan Dewar (Endiku), and archaeologist Gurd Khase (Gilgamesh) enter the mythical Netherworld (Carl Jung's collective unconscious) to deal with Gurd's PTSD (symbolized by the monster named Humbaba in the Epic) - resolving man-against-self conflict. Ethan-Enkidu enters the rodeo arena on July 4th to deal with the Bull from Heaven (owned by Lagashs and which is possessed by the spirit of a dead human psycho, former employee of Lagash). Ethan-Enkidu fakes his death and returns to the Lagash estate during a tent revival on the property to deal a final blow to the Lagash-Dumntzi corruption - resolving man-against-society conflict.





	The New Mexico Algorithm Part 2

Chapter Seventeen  
Women and Secrets

Dena Hatathli was thought to be crazy by many of her fellow Navajos. Some just thought she was rebellious, purposefully cantankerous. None among her people disputed her ability to inflame desire with her fiery beauty, her bewitching eyes her long lustrous hair her heady scent of desert acacias.  
Unwed and pregnant at the age of eighteen, Dena was living in Navajo City, New Mexico, and a member of the Native American Church (outlawed by Navajos at that time). One morning in the summer of 1950 after sharing the Holy Sacrament, Dena climbed up sacred Gobernador Knob north of town grunting, puking, sweating, and toting a gallon of water. She watched the flowering prickly pear and ocotillo cactus leaning away giving her a wide berth.  
Dena spoke in gasps with Thunderbird spirit while the painful contractions increased in frequency and the child slid from her body onto the summit of the sandy, stony peak under a bright, sunny sky. After resting for a while in the buffeting wind, she spat on her obsidian knife cutting through the umbilical cord. Drained, exhausted, sweaty, and dusty, Dena tied the slippery cord with her gritty, bloody hands. Fingers trembling, she patiently, painstakingly peeled a peyote button with her knife for the infant to suckle during the staggering meandering trek north down to the sacred San Juan River. Washing the infant in the rippling current at twilight, Dena sang in her native tongue.  
Gaze on the river glistening with starlight, she listened carefully to the soft, whispering echoes of wind over stone and water teaching Dena her personal sacred song of power. Tongue licking the dried grime and sweat from her lips smiling, knowing possession of the song would permit her to enter the Underworld without the assistance of the Holy Sacrament. Flames in her eyes.  
Dena decided soon after returning to quiet Navajo City the following morning she needed to move to bustling Gallup on Interstate 40. She rented a small studio near the city center doing quite well earning a living telling fortunes for white American and foreign tourists. She was banned from the Native American Church because her congregation believed she was commercializing her ability to enter the Underworld and consult with spirits. Dena could have cared less. She no longer needed the Holy Sacrament.  
Dena bought a charming home in a pleasant part of the city having the child tutored by white folks. She didn’t want her mixed-blood child exposed to bullying by children in the public school system. She thought there was still too much of a Cowboys-and-Indians attitude lingering in Gallup. The sight, sound, and smell of the trains huffing packed cattle-cars through town accentuated the rough, Wild-west atmosphere. Dena kept her sharp obsidian knife on her person at all times.  
Dena never revealed the gender of her child. At the onset of puberty, taking the adolescent to the reservation ceremonial right-of-passage into adulthood conducted by her clan, the Big Medicine People. Billie Hatathli attended the girls’ ritual in the spring and later in the year, Billy was present at the ceremony for boys. Dena heard through the grapevine the Big Medicine People on the reservation assumed Billy and Billie were twins.  
Dena let her child choose her gender identity. Her child decided to be female. Dena also allowed Billie to select the obsidian on their trip to the Jemez Mountains for her knife. Dena taught Billie how to make a blade gently abrading on fine sandstone, polishing the stone with coarse wool and fine leather, not knapping away flakes to make the edge.  
Billie was tall and willowy with broad shoulders, slender hips, elegant hands, brown eyes, fine complexion, a noble, aquiline nose, full lips, strong but narrow chin. She was comfortable in the traditional Navajo ankle-length, dark-wool skirts and long-sleeve, cotton or satin blouses in bright, solid colors. Her trademark in apparel was a bright scarf, silk in summer wool in winter, around her long, graceful neck.  
Billie’s smooth, mellow, captivating voice subtly demanded and quickly captured the attention of people of all ages, genders, and ethnicities. No one felt compelled to say a word while she spoke.  
At Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado, Billie received her double Bachelor’s degree in teaching and child psychology. In Durango, she became a member of the Native American Church beginning her travels in the Underworld through the Holy Sacrament. She learned her song of power on the shore of the San Juan, but she kept some of the little cactus buttons in her sewing basket after she left the church.  
Billie moved to Santa Fe teaching in a public school during the day. The nights provided her with the opportunity to dress in the glamorous gowns she designed and tailored herself performing on stage before adoring audiences. On the weekends she gave psychic readings to American, European, Asian, and African tourists.  
One of her first clients was Señora Violetta Angelica Karabaldo whose piping, soprano voice silenced Billie’s mellow alto. Violetta’s face was round her skin like alabaster, her hair long, black and straight. She was dainty and perfectly proportioned at a level four feet two inches, like a big doll with turquoise-blue eyes.  
“Aieee! It’s a long story and I’ve not even told the priest all there is!” Violetta spontaneously erupting as though something in Billie’s kind, deep eyes unleashed the torrent of her life-story in the studio draped with purple curtains lit by a dozen candles.  
Violetta claimed her deceased mother was abducted and impregnated by space aliens a mere seven months before Violetta was born in 1947 the very year the spacecraft crashed near Roswell. Billie learned that, although Violetta was born in the United States, her parents were Romani (gypsy) of normal stature, immigrants from Spain.  
Mesmerized by the tale and her bright eyes, vigorous gesticulations, sing-song delivery Billie listened to the story of Violetta herding sheep with her parents for a wealthy landowner for years until the night of Violetta’s eighteenth birthday. Under a stormy sky among stampeding sheep the discovery at the base of a boulder eroding from the banks of the Pecos River a bunch of glittering, Spanish, gold coins in a rotting chest. The sight of it in the flashing lightning! Violetta swooning eyes rolling in her head stiff arms extended toward the floor of the studio.  
The tearful narration as Violetta stormed around the room of her parents’ instant death by lightning, or maybe it was the stampeding sheep that was the final undoing of her father (the old rams hated the old man). The harrowing ordeal in the rain and thunder of removing the bags of powdery substance from the secret compartment her father told her never to open and putting the gold in there. The grueling account on her knees in the studio of burying the bags of white stuff with her beloved mother and father, incising a cross on the hard boulder in the thunder and lightning. Violetta’s head bowing, nodding in exhaustion, disheveled hair dragging on the bare, hardwood floor.  
Billie put her Tarot cards in the drawer of the single table in the room, scooted her ladder-back chair against the wall to give Violetta space, adjusted her scarf retrieved her sewing basket from behind a purple curtain. Listening, watching, and sewing while Violetta told of hiring a lawyer convincing him the gold was brought from Spain by her father as a dowry in the event he had a daughter. The throaty, emotional story of how the lawyer extracted a monstrous fee (flinging her arms toward the high ceiling, lips trembling) for authenticating the treasure, converting it into cash, and managing her fortune. How Violetta bought the beautiful, old hacienda on forty acres bordered by the Pecos River south of Santa Fe, hiring two sisters, Mia and Rosario Casas (apparently plump and bossy if Billie’s interpretation of Violetta’s body language and tone of voice was correct), from the Santa Ana Pueblo to help her with renovating the house, tending the goats, sheep and chickens, the vegetable and rose gardens (imitations of hammering, herding with a stick and a less convincing mime of hoeing). How she gave agonizing birth to two illegitimate sons (Billie considered the agony credible but was captivated by the sweetness of Violetta’s expression as she gazed down at an imaginary infant cradled in her arms) Batista by a young Mexican passing along the river in a boat (Violetta suspected the fishing gear was a cover for some other illicit activity) behind her hacienda and Felipé by a Tewa youth on the Santa Ana reservation after celebrating Mass with Mia and Rosario. How she adopted abandoned, mute, Zuni, twin infants Cielo and Sueño. How she decided (thoughtful, meditative mien) all her boys needed a governess with the appropriate qualifications.  
Billie gradually assumed that role after convincing Violetta she was capable of the strictness necessary to handle the unruly Batista and Felipé, the gentleness essential for Cielo and Sueño, and the détente to deal with Rosario and Mia. Billie and Violetta became fast friends and UFOers spending many nights on the roof of one of the square towers of the hacienda gazing through a telescope at the twinkling stars and flashing spaceships. Together, they watched Ancient Aliens with one eye and the sleeping boys with the other. They put child leashes on the four stumbling, tumbling, toppling boys taking excursions into the wild to view Native American rock art reportedly depicting aliens from other worlds.  
At the end of the first year, Violetta invited Billie to move in and manage the estate as well as the children. Billie accepted, and the boys enjoyed a childhood of international flavor. Billie’s former clients found Violetta’s old hacienda charming, the diminutive owner delightful. She could see Violetta was enthralled with the social life and friendships she never experienced out on the lonely range herding sheep. Just like Billie’s mellow alto, Violetta’s sweet piping voice never ceased charming people of all nationalities. Billie was happy with her station in life.  
One of Billie’s last clients at her Santa Fe studio, Linda Jo Fontaine, was a young, divorced mother of four boys and one girl. Billie thought Linda Jo might have developed into a natural beauty with a lovely figure if she hadn’t gotten some bad advice at an impressionable age about makeup, hair- and skin-care, and selection in the style of apparel and shoes. Linda Jo was almost six-foot-tall, wore tall heels, flaunting poor posture like she thought it was sexy.  
Intelligence shone in Linda Jo’s lucid, gray eyes, but the severely arched eyebrows were too heavy, her plump lips unnecessarily accentuated, too much contrast in her color palette, her bleached hair too high. Billie wondered why a bright woman wanted or needed to look like a dumb blond.  
Billie listened to Linda Jo explaining she had recently moved to the area, bought a ranch south of Interstate 40 across the Rio Grande from Albuquerque, thinking she needed a little insight from Billie to give her an edge on planning for the future. Linda Jo wanted advice on the stock market, and she wanted to know if it was a mistake she’d stuffed her two-story, stucco, American four-square home with all that heavy Chippendale, all the British-impressionists prints, the miniature, carved ships in bottles, the cut crystal, the salt-water aquariums, the library of classics. Would her children be happy with English riding lessons and gear, or should she go with Western saddles, boots, and style?  
“Oh! I just can’t handle what you’re telling me!” Linda Jo screeched, eyes flashing, high hair bobbing, pitching money, abandoning Billie’s studio.  
Billie’s psychic reading frightened her to such an existential extent Linda Jo never returned, never spoke of the episode. She was deeply troubled by her strong sexual attraction to the psychic thinking a spell had been cast on her. However, Linda Jo jotted down and kept some notes she felt relevant to raising her rowdy sons and pretty daughter.  
Sharper than a tack, Linda Jo Fontaine didn’t publicly exhibit any of the bigoted, homophobic, white-supremacist behavior and attitudes of her former husband. She presented herself as a brainless character hoping to conceal her calculating, manipulative nature.  
A bubble-headed bleach blond, smoking, alcoholic, Linda Jo also was secretive about all her bad habits, opinions, and unsavory behavior, which might have deleterious consequences on the growing young minds of her children. Consequently, her daughter, Astarte, didn’t pick up any of her mother’s bad habits, or turn out to be like Linda Jo in any way with one exception: Astarte was secretive.  
Astarte Juno Lagash wanted a pony to explore the ranch. Billy Joe, the youngest son, had to have a pony to match his sister’s. Someone needed to teach them how to ride and care for their ponies. Renovations for the house, improvements on the corrals and barn with modern living accommodations for the hired help were necessary for a functioning home and ranch. The lucky man she put in charge also needed to help Linda Jo with any of her personal needs.  
Linda Jo was quick to see how this whole project was a win-win for all parties involved, so she hired a brawny, ruggedly handsome, smoking, alcoholic foreman and let him take charge of her body and the entire improvement enterprise. She increased the permanent staff with two additional rough and tough men for the daily outdoor chores and occasional indoor duties.  
Mr. Daniel Stork, a middle-aged, bald, forensic accountant (nicknamed by some of his peers ‘Quirky Dan’) was recruited as her accountant and consultant to explore and exploit profitable opportunities. He was an expert at money laundering, securities fraud, business valuations, malicious computer hacking, and other felonious vices.  
Highly intelligent, Quirky Dan was quick to perceive Linda Jo’s true nature, but he was willing to play her games. Linda Jo happily went along with Mr. Stork’s delusion that women thought his nerdy façade was tremendously sexy because he knew how to cook the books and was good in bed. However, none of her stern, reproachful looks ever convinced Mr. Stork to stop leering at her daughter.  
Astarte was a perky but shy, bookish girl with a cute little nose, tantalizing lips, long, lustrous brown hair, big hazel-gray eyes, naturally long eyelashes, and big mammary glands. Her ethereal prettiness was unsullied by makeup, and her charm was not practiced affectation developed in front of a mirror. She studied hard and made straight A’s. She rode hard at barrel racing, crowned high school rodeo queen her senior year. Astarte was the perfect amalgam of her parent’s nature and nurture.  
Astarte enjoyed chores on the ranch after the last of the brothers joined the Marines, particularly the disgusting chore of dehorning the spunky bull calves. She also liked roping, wrestling them down while her horse kept the rope taut, tight around their necks hogtying them hauling them down to the banks of the Rio Grande, slitting their throats to shut their bleating. She engaged in this pastime when her father, Marine Colonel, Buddy Joe Lagash, came to visit, and together down by the river they would grill and eat the tender heart and liver. Astarte liked to think of her sacrifices as Golden Calves.  
When her father was not present, Astarte chanted softly while poking her finger in the blood-soaked ground. She would apply the muddy gore to her face staring fixedly into the hole, chanting continuously until she entered the Netherworld.  
The present she received from Buddy Joe for graduating with honors and winning the rodeo crown was proprietorship of a corporation raising stock for rodeos located on her mother’s ranch thereafter christened Heaven. The two men Buddy Joe selected to run the operation were the same two men Linda Jo had wrangled into pulling the strings necessary to acquire Astarte’s rodeo crown.  
When she moved to Los Angeles, Astarte decided to drop all vestiges of the rodeo, and country and western culture, including the long hair, opting for a short cut and a perm giving her bouncy curls. However, she packed the rope, hogtying cords, favorite, guillotine-style dehorner and she pitched in the quirts she used to speed her horses around barrels in the arena.  
Amid the stately palms, elegant, flowering Bird of Paradise, Matilija poppies, and calla lilies, Astarte began her summer classes at UCLA. She chose to enter the three-year bachelor’s program, so she could go on to complete a master’s degree, internship, and start her practice as a psychologist as soon as possible.  
Astarte wanted to be viewed as a professional person devoted to promoting mental and emotional health in her fellow human beings. Secretly, she dreamed of developing psychological tactics and strategies to manipulate the richest, most influential people, The One Percent. She liked the thought of having powerful people doing what she wanted them to do. She fantasized pulling strings making the richest people her puppets. She didn’t care what the puppets accomplished. Astarte just wanted to watch people jumping and running at her shrewdly crafted suggestions, propositions, intimations, and insinuations.  
Astarte was exceedingly industrious in the classroom for her freshmen courses in the summer, but also at cramming a lot of material at night from advanced textbooks, and current publications dedicated to the most popular trends in psychology. Astarte manipulated her instructors with her keenness and erudition just as she would puppets. She considered it was good practice for the future.  
During the summer, Astarte developed superficial friendships but declined invitations from fellow students for weekend evenings at restaurants, movies, and nightclubs. Frequently, she spent two or three hours at stables on the outskirts of the city renting and riding a spirited horse on trails or cross country believing it better than daily exercise at a fitness center at reducing fat and maintaining muscle tone. She enjoyed her spare time alone exploring the greater Los Angeles area visiting museums, beaches, hiking trails, and public gardens. Astarte discovered her greatest pleasure of all creeping around at night down by the Dominguez or Los Cerritos channels roping and hogtying homeless men slitting their throats cutting out their hearts dumping the bodies in the water.  
During September, Astarte accepted dates with several promising young men, and after dinner and a film took them back to her condo, furnished in the fashion currently popular in Cosmopolitan, not far from campus showing them a good time. She, however, didn’t have a good time on any of these occasions.  
Intimacy for Astarte wasn’t gratifying, much less satisfying unless it was conducted under the tantalizing aura and delicious auspices of secrecy. Astarte realized she was a danger freak of sorts. The openness she experienced in L.A. wasn’t as stimulating, fulfilling as the careful, clandestine subterfuge she exercised in Albuquerque to keep everyone, especially Mama Jo who kept Daddy Joe informed by email and long phone conversations, convinced she was maintaining her integrity and her virginity.  
In October she decided to target the closeted clique, which, in her assessment, were the trendiest, wealthiest, and most beautiful people with the most powerful parents. The darling of this clique was the strikingly handsome American History and Political Science major, Sherman Dumuntzi, from Santa Fe. He was the only child of a New Mexico, US senator who was among the wealthiest one percent of America. When Astarte learned Sherman’s grandparents were immigrants believed to be related to a Russian oligarchy (mob), the scope of her dreams expanded into international intrigue.  
Sherman was only a couple of inches taller than Astarte’s five-foot-eight, strongly resembling her in more than looks. His thick, dark hair was cut in the most popular style his physique toned at the gym his eyes dark and challenging, his skin white as the finest ivory, his full lips brimming with smiles.  
To all appearances, Sherman and Astarte were a hot item said to be a cute couple, but the intimacy was a compulsory performance in the condo they soon shared. Only when she cheated on Sherman did Astarte find intensely explosive satisfaction. The illicit subterfuge of flirting behind his back while holding Sherman’s hand at a party or nightclub triggered a desperate, quivering craving something like creeping up on a destitute, homeless man. Accepting an invitation (roping) from her targeted collaborator made her spine shiver. Astarte barely controlled her charming ebullience, glittering eyes her sensuous movements during her dates (hogtying) with her partners in sin. She was fascinated, titillated, and intrigued with the possibilities of Sherman discovering her in a compromising situation with another man, or her finding Sherman with a man, or even two (requiring a sacrifice).  
Bewildered, Sherman found himself even more of a darling of the closeted crowd higher in demand by men when Astarte slipped the wedding band on his finger in December. The marriage made in heaven for both of them was kept a secret from the families. Nuptial agreements were signed, Astarte retaining her maiden name.  
At first, Sherman sincerely attempted to keep his rampant infidelities secret. Trembling nervously, he engaged in heaving, heart-threatening depravity on benches in the shower locker rooms of gyms, against the wall of library study cubicles and over toilets in restrooms on campus.  
Sherman was considering divorce just so all these gorgeous, persistent men would quit hitting on him when he realized what his wife was up to: Astarte had accepted the challenge in his eyes. It was a type of challenge he had never anticipated, but he felt obliged to fully participate in the game even though Astarte’s momentum was escalating by the second.  
An unspoken rivalry developed between them in their efforts to acquire student lovers as sensual, witty, wealthy, intelligent, charming, and entertaining as they were, and to ‘avoid’ discovery by the other. In February, Sherman was shocked to hear through the grapevine Astarte gave a ruby earring as a parting gift to one of her lovers on Valentine’s Day.  
Defiance gleaming in his dark eyes, Sherman became predatory giving diamond studs to the casualties of his trysts. He was uncertain about his exhilaration concerning rumors and tales of their unseemly and outrageous behavior whispered far and wide. He realized one-ups-man-ship was spiraling a bit out of control as the year progressed. As the whole affair was on the brink of becoming a laughing matter in December, Sherman was astonished when Astarte, bored of the UCLA-Westwood crowd, turned her glittering hazel-gray eyes to West Hollywood to look for lovers.  
“How could she!” the closeted men of Westwood hissed to anybody who would listen.  
“The bitch!” the straight men seethed to their buddies.  
“Go, girl!” said the UCLA women.  
“My god what next,” Sherman murmured to himself parking his BMW on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. The epitome of confidence, fashion, and style, he strolled into Studio One endeavoring and succeeding in becoming the darling, and, eventually a legend of sexual prowess.  
Stimulated almost to the point of psychosis, Astarte took immense pleasure in her secret conquests and excelled in her studies. She ascribed her scholastic success to her invigorating, stirring game of racking up conquests, and the success of her conquests she attributed to the manipulative skills she accumulated and assimilated from her wealth of knowledge in psychology. This spurred her on for the greater acquisition of that knowledge, and conquests requiring increasing challenges to her skills.  
The connections of the West Hollywood scene with some aspects of the Beverly Hills scene led Astarte dancing merrily to the stars. Resolutely, Sherman backtracked to his resources at UCLA finding and settling into his own set of movie stars. He switched his major to criminal law and bought a house in Beverly Hills.  
Sherman thoroughly educated Astarte about the mansion’s external security system connecting it to her computer so she could keep an eye on things from the comfort of her study. He told her nothing about the internal network.  
Not long after they were comfortable in their new home one of her lovers, still sweating from their romp, sat with Astarte at her computer to hack Sherman’s PC discovering spy-cam files of her activities, infuriating her. She excused herself for several tense minutes to check for evidence of cameras in the room where she kept the scrapbook of newspaper clippings on the mysterious slashing deaths of homeless men in L. A., her knife, dehorner, rope, cords, and quirts in a safe. When Astarte returned they unearthed archives of Sherman’s trysts occurring throughout the house, delighting her.  
The next time Sherman entered the house Astarte roped him, hogtied him, and threatened to unman him with the dehorner. After that Sherman felt like he was living in a horror movie a monster potentially concealed behind every door under every bed. He became shifty-eyed and jumpy.  
On a night he was sure Astarte was out of the house, Sherman dared to bring home a guest. Sherman and his-buddy were gagged, hogtied naked on their bellies heads together noses crammed into the dehorner Astarte vigorously whacking butts a leather quirt in each hand.  
“Fags!” Astarte on her knees yelling convincingly masking her elation at a dream come true with the passion of anger and disgust. Quirt lightly caressing creamy buttocks turning red simultaneous whacks bodies jerking.  
“You ought to be deported to MOTHER,” Whack “RUSSIA!” Whack.  
“They know how to treat guys like you over there!” WHACK WHACK. Astarte breathing hard spine tinkling hair disheveled harpy-eyes blazing dreamily.  
“Do you understand how outrageously humiliating this is” (pausing to collect her thoughts tangled in ecstasy) “to me!” Astarte screamed.  
The marriage ended with a divorce, Astarte graduating, and Sherman (with a very sore butt) entering an institution to restore his mental and emotional health. He was marginally comforted believing his father’s wealth sufficient to keep this episode of his life entirely under wraps.  
Unfazed by the whole affair, charming and calculating, Astarte packed up her gear and moved on starting her graduate degree at the University of Chicago. She checked out the best rural stables and horses and leased an apartment downtown, a location with easy access to haunts of the homeless and blues clubs. In one of these establishments, she met and quickly, secretly married closeted Roger Wayne Hudson, an Air Force pilot a few years her junior. Astarte thought she could make a puppet of Roger’s father, a fabulously wealthy arms manufacturer.  
Within the two years required to finish her degree, Astarte failed to impress the elder Hudson, and chewed Roger up and spit him out in such a condition he could no longer fly. Roger complained to Air Force doctors about the circulation in his hands and feet but he never mentioned his nightmares of him desperately dodging strafing rounds fired by flying dehorners.  
Astarte packed her equipment with the scrapbook of newspaper articles on slashed, L. A. homeless men next to the one with articles of mutilated homeless men discovered in the Calumet River or one of the branches or forks of the Chicago River. The Chicago reports concluding the poor men were sacrificed by Satanists, possibly a cult relocating from Los Angeles. She moved on to an internship in Washington D.C., beginning to believe men were despicable, pathetic weak things hardly worth her time.  
Astarte quickly established her reputation in Washington as an affluent, fag hag with an endearing southwestern drawl. She was wholeheartedly accepted by the wealthier, more established set of mental health professionals finding her utterly charming, enchanting.  
Rich, politically savvy, gay men loved Astarte for her insights concerning their problems with intimacy. They reciprocated by entertaining Astarte lavishly in their sumptuous homes, horseback riding with her along the shores of the Potomac, escorting her to opera, ballet, classical concerts, and gala events for more than a year.  
Three warring cliques advised her on hair and fashion designer. She finally settled the battles between factions choosing a majestic, shoulder-length, wavy-disheveled lob and the designs of Oscar De La Renta accommodating her athletic, buxom figure.  
Astarte was mightily pissed to leave Washington, the gaming and manipulation capital of the Western world (and recently of dead, mutilated homeless men found in Rock or Indian creeks). She felt she was getting the hang of maneuvering influential people to dance like puppets when she was summoned back to Albuquerque. Papa Joe and Mama Jo were reunited (sort of) and jointly insisting she return to Albuquerque or the funds necessary to maintain her social position in D. C. would cease to flow. Harpy-eyes blazing, she boarded the plane for home.

Chapter Eighteen  
Demons and Angels

Retired Marine Colonel Buddy Joe Lagash’s goatish face was clean-shaven, his gray hair buzz cut, his blue eyes hardened into a glare expressing utter disbelief in the stupidity of the people and the world around him. He was a robust six-foot-tall every inch rigid military bearing. The Colonel savored the taste of cigar tobacco and when he was not eating, or sleeping he kept a fat one firmly ensconced between teeth and cheek. He refused to light one considering the smell of tobacco smoke disgustingly effeminate compared to the smoke of battle.  
Buddy Joe liked to peruse his photograph albums stuffed with pictures of war carnage. He liked the old black-and-white photos of World War I and early World War II, but he loved all the images of subsequent wars in color, especially those in which the scene was liberally splashed with the red of blood.  
The Colonel relished thumbing through his extensive collection of albums portraying the slaughter left behind by Marine engagements he participated in as a lieutenant in the Gulf War. He reveled in the pictures of skirmishes during the Afghan War he commanded in the field or assisted in planning as he rose in the military hierarchy (many of his covert actions would have been considered war crimes in the international court of law and never reported publically). His favorites were the large-format in the tailor-made album of the Iraq conflict showing a considerable amount of butchery and extensive evidence of savagery.   
When high on cocaine, Buddy Joe loved reviving the rousing sensations of the past, every muscle in his body tense, exultantly reliving battles. Reenacting hand-to-hand combat maneuvers, he inhaled vigorously, victoriously imaging capturing the last, dying breath of the men he killed seizing the energy of souls to fuel his spirit. His eyes rolling up into his head shivering in ecstasy, he inevitably collapsed under the weight of cocaine- and alcohol-induced delusion into sleep.  
Buddy Joe loved his wife, Linda Jo, who served him well especially during the planned divorce, and their years apart. Early in his career, he was irked that employees of the defense department like himself couldn’t invest in defense contractors, or the arms industry while the US congressmen and senators voting to fund armed conflicts could invest in them and grow rich. Gritting and grinding his teeth at the injustice, Buddy Joe suppressed his growing exasperation and frustration until he was no longer able to contain it. At that point, he channeled his fury into plotting for a resolution for his anger with his wife.  
Buddy and Linda secured a divorce, and she reclaimed her maiden name, Fontaine. Continuing to honorably serve his country, he gave his ex-wife a generous alimony and child support for the five children. Buddy Joe directed her to invest the money in the arms and oil industries, and private contractors to the defense department who, after all, where recipients of fifty percent of the US defense budget and less susceptible to the degree of congressional scrutiny leveled at Federal agencies. In the year 2000, the Colonel instructed Linda Jo to shift her investments into the military contractor for which the current vice president once served as CEO. They got rich before Lagash retired with his generous government pension.  
Buddy Joe celebrated retirement by constructing a substantial, single-story, log cabin on a hilltop a hundred yards up from Linda Jo’s American Foursquare with an encircling porch. He proudly installed a replica of a Revolutionary-War-era cannon and a pyramid of round shot surrounded by a bed of blood-red petunias in his front yard. Grinning proudly, he fired it every Fourth of July scaring the shit out of his livestock.  
The Colonel hired Batista Karabaldo’s landscaping firm to design, establish and maintain a luxuriant natural habitat on the top and the entire south face of the hill around Linda’s house, the side facing the road, but he warned Karabaldo never to be seen near the property. Buddy Joe wanted a lot of flowering cacti to attract hummingbirds and if the cacti didn’t do the job he wanted camouflaged birdfeeders installed. He wanted rabbits hopping around but somebody to keep the population down and the rattlesnakes and coyotes out. The Colonel wanted the place to look like a southwestern heaven year round. He erected a new arching gate at the entrance on the road announcing the name of the corporate ranch, Heaven.  
Whistling merrily, he packed his home with a collection of Early American-style, knotty-pine furniture and reproductions of tools and equipment from blacksmith shops: anvils, hammers, chisels, tongs, bellows, swages, punches, and molds for various weapons and bullets. He decorated the walls unreservedly with framed replicas of antique, military firearms, knives, daggers, and swords. Buddy Joe filled his hourglasses with gunpowder. His perpetual glare softened, reverence gracing his long, florid face when he installed the colorful, stained-glass windows depicting images of ancient, robed warriors engaged in Biblical battles in every room.  
Buddy Joe protected his property with motion-sensor lighting, surveillance cameras, and alarm systems. Meticulously and thoroughly, he linked the defense system of his fortress to his professional security outfit, Cimarron Security Services, in Albuquerque, manned with former military and intelligence personnel. Several of them were veterans of the Colonel’s personal, black-marketeering operations in Afghanistan.  
Not long after settling comfortably, he decided to build a shooting gallery of native sandstone behind his house. Buddy Joe considered thumbing through the photo albums filled with bloody scenes of war merely foreplay. When sufficiently titillated by the images, he would adjourn to the gallery with its beverage center. Once happily and securely settled there alone with the doors locked, he really and truly became aroused to the sound of firing his vast collection of pistols, rifles, and assault weapons.  
The exhilarating fragrance of the hot gun barrels and gun smoke wafting in the air never failed to inspire him to strip to his skivvies and socks, smoke a joint, snort cocaine, and sip scotch. Sometimes he tried to recall but could never remember when the glimmering naked, little, bandolier-laden, satyr-like demons tootling on their pan pipes first joined him in his reveries. Cavorting along with them, a cigar in his mouth and firing a weapon was about the only way he could achieve peaceful sleep.  
#  
Ridden with guilt and remorse at the suicide of his youngest son, Billy Joe, in Afghanistan, Buddy Joe entered and graduated from a seminary so he could command the authority to preach hellfire whenever he felt like preaching hellfire publically. Immediately after receiving his degree, he applied for and received the appropriate licenses and regulatory approvals from the Internal Revenue Service to establish his tax-free, nondenominational, evangelical foundation, Rapture. He thought this fitting since Astarte’s corporation and Linda Jo’s ranch was named Heaven.  
Buddy Joe dreamed of building the biggest church in New Mexico accommodating at least twenty thousand people. The colonel reveled in the thought of being a recognized professional on the subjects of God and guns, controlling the minds of thousands of people in his future congregation. He was mindful of retaining his baleful glare and the cigar in their respective places during his appearances on the televised evangelical programs, tent revivals, and political events. Buddy Joe felt he needed to project a particular persona to get the kind of followers he craved.  
The Colonel hankered to bring people like Senator William Dumuntzi into his fold. He knew from the data-gathering branch of Cimarron the former senator was an honored member of The One Percent with firm connections to the mob running Russia. Buddy Joe believed he knew William Dumuntzi better than the senator did.  
The senator had decided not to run for a sixth term of office, because of the scandals and rumors of scandals engulfing his final year of service. Dumuntzi had vigorously fought to have the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program providing food assistance to the poor since it was introduced as the Food Stamp Program in 1964, dramatically reduced in the 2008 Farm Bill. He fought more vigorously to have the financial assistance from the same Farm Bill to wealthy farmers and ranchers like himself increased dramatically.   
The following year a local investigative journalist revealed the corporation, which for many years permitted its cattle to graze on public Bureau of Land Management property in New Mexico without paying the mandatory fees for any of that time, was a shell corporation owned by Dumuntzi. On the heels of this disclosure, a national journalist-environmentalist team discovered the dramatically increased erosion along the fringes of several National Park and National Monuments, and within National Forests in the West was the result of overgrazing by flocks of sheep owned by corporate ranches also owned by Dumuntzi shell companies.  
The Senator had denied all allegations but wisely declined to run for reelection when it became evident other accusations were on the brink of being leveled regarding his reputedly immoral behavior and unlawful conduct. Few people outside TOP were aware of his secret and more successful schemes to manipulate the system to enrich himself and his cohorts. Buddy Joe knew he was one of the few.  
#  
“Boys will be boys,” Buddy Joe said disarming the alarm systems unlocking the door to the shooting range in the spring of 2010. His cigar was in place framed by a huge grin, but the glaring blue eyes softened amiably for this occasion. The afternoon was unmercifully hot, dry and the damn Mexicans were swarming around shouting gibberish mowing, preening, and fiddling with the irrigation all over the hillside. Stains at the armpits of his dark golf shirt stretched over his barrel chest and belly, sweat seeping through his skivvies threatening the crotch of his white slacks.  
“Girls will be girls,” replied Senator Dumuntzi entering the building. His six-foot stature, robust physique, and military posture were similar to the Colonel’s. His silver, leonine hair an evangelical pastor’s coif. His pastel leisure suit and white shirt showing no signs of a wrinkle or perspiration.  
That was the beginning and the end of the discussion regarding the Astarte-Sherman affair initially establishing the relationship between the two men. Neither of them was concerned about it, but they took the opportunity to develop an alliance of their own, which, according to their sources could be beneficial to both.  
“You don’t have anything to worry about in here,” Buddy Joe said grinning expansively, shutting the door, spreading his arms into the room, bowing slightly.  
The Colonel could see from his easy smile the Senator understood the interior of the building was under no surveillance of any kind, audio or visual. With a spring in his step, he escorted Dumuntzi to the bar and counter hoping the beads of sweat forming on his scalp weren’t shining through his short, thinning hair. With a flourish, the Colonel hoisted a liter-bottle of Laphroaig and set it on the counter.  
Shifting the cigar around the unfailing grin, he watched the senator take a short stroll furtively scrutinizing walls and ceiling, nooks and crannies. Turning with a broadening smile, the senator nodded his approval, ostensibly at the brand of scotch. Buddy Joe set a full ice bucket on the counter with two glasses pouring them each a generous double shot.  
“I understand you’ve developed an impressive data-gathering system, Colonel,” the Senator said swirling the scotch in his glass, sniffing, opting for no ice, righteousness radiating from his face beaming from his suit.  
“I like to think so, Senator,” Buddy Joe replied with a proud grin matching righteousness with holy self-righteousness.  
The Colonel suppressed his impulse to inform the senator Cimarron Security personnel were in Washington D.C., Langley, San Diego, and Seattle, and choice locations across Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Qualified, experienced people.  
“Your investigations have given you a reason to believe we have a common enemy?” Dumuntzi casually enquired taking a sip smiling fleetingly as though the thought of an enemy forbade lingering smiles the intimation of over-confidence.  
“A pattern of means and methods has come to my attention recently,” the Colonel responded with a sober expression, letting the perky angle of the cigar drop a little, registering the senator’s annoying habit of punctuating his speech with brief smiles at times seeming not to require it, like a nervous tick.  
“I believe the party responsible for causing you some problems, the media indiscretions, is a sophisticated, covert operation, environmentalists,” Buddy Joe nodding, a grim saint dead set against witches and paganism. “Not some fly-by-night eco-terrorist. I may be able to put a name to this thorny irritation before long if my progress continues at the current rate. Once the enemy is identified, I hope to eliminate it,” the colonel said confidently, reassuringly, resolutely determined to burn someone on the stake, preferably alive.  
“Your foundation has been very successful in providing those in need with heavenly guidance, Colonel,” the Senator’s abbreviated smile conveying humble admiration signaling he was convinced and impressed but didn’t want to hear any more on the subject of environmentalists recalling the times the damn fools paraded around in front of his offices and even his very own home. He fingered the neat stacks of paper targets on the counter displaying the logos of the Nature Conservancy, National Geographic Society, Audubon Society, and Sierra Club tempted to ask for a loaded gun for a little practice to blow off steam.  
“We like to think we do God’s will, Senator,” Buddy Joe smiled, face serious, solemn and pious as he leaned against the counter. He took a sip of scotch without troubling the cigar imagining the Senator’s millions pouring into Rapture’s coffers.  
“I hope you will accept my donations to your fine foundation to continue the good work,” the senator smiling his inquisitive expression requesting subtle clues about how the money would be spent without any potentially incriminating details mentioned.  
“With your support, the domestic annoyance will be eliminated,” Buddy Joe grinned brimming with optimism, trust blossoming, small talk over. “There are few premium foreign choices at this time, but the possibilities could expand quickly in the future once that monkey is out of the White House.  
“Right now, Bill, there’s a big demand by the niggers in east Africa and Yemen,” Buddy Joe stated deliberately, boldly suggesting the Philistines could be killing each other off this very minute if he could find the money to finance it. “They pay the price we demand. Is there a new market I might be able to help you develop that would promote your agenda? Perhaps there’s a country formerly in the Soviet Bloc that needs to be destabilized and brought back under the control of Mother Russian and your family.”  
“Buddy,” the senator pausing, lips puckering, brow wrinkling as though hesitant to broach a matter of some delicacy, wanting to know more about the pond before he stuck his toe in, “can you tell me anything about the snafu in Mogadishu?”  
“No,” Buddy Joe felt his sphincter tightening painfully clockwise twisting hemorrhoids, but managed to smile ruefully holding unblinking eye contact in hopes of hiding his lie with a virtuous gaze. “I can assure you that the incident wasn’t in any way connected to my operations.”  
Buddy Joe knew the senator was referring to the massive shipment of pink, toy rifles photographed spilling from shipping crates along the Somali shore the previous year. Choked with fury, Buddy Joe watched reports on newscasts at the time about the allegedly intended shipment of real automatic rifles discovered in the shallows and reefs of the tiny peaceful Palauan archipelago just north of the equator hundreds of miles to the east.  
“There must be a dozen international agencies searching for the fool responsible for that fiasco, Bill,” Buddy Joe took a sip of his scotch jerking his head sadly right and left trying to cover the agony of his sphincter twirling counterclockwise constricting.  
Buddy Joe tried not to picture a similar pile of shipping crate debris, and plastic guns discovered recently in the mountains controlled by the Taliban in Afghanistan. The Colonel knew the US intelligence agencies were keeping it from the public. The whereabouts of the Afghan heroin that paid for the shipment and the real weapons had not yet come to light.  
“It’s a mystery how a snafu of that magnitude could have occurred,” Buddy Joe grunting shaking his head genuinely baffled searching mentally through both black market chains, his millions lost. “Had to be amateurs.”  
“A pain in the ass for somebody, Buddy,” the Senator responded taking a sip releasing another fleeting smile thinking if his sources were correct the operation was highly professional but the trickster responsible for the snafu was far more sophisticated and not interested in money or guns, and damn it that’s what’s causing my winning smiles to abort—somebody with that unnatural state of mind might be the one after me. The Senator was willing to give any amount of money to see that bastard drawn and quartered.  
“I understand you’ll be breaking ground soon for your church in Albuquerque. Congratulations. I hope I can be of some modest assistance,” the Senator said enthusiastically grin aborted.  
The glasses clinked in a toast, smiles lingering sincerely as though the deals were done. This satisfactorily tranquil moment abruptly ended when Buddy Joe choked and spewed scotch and cigar in his surprise at the appearance of one his little, sparkling, gun-toting, satyr-like buddies hovering over his secret stash of cocaine and marijuana in the knotty-pine cabinet behind Dumuntzi. The little bastard had Billy Joe’s face.  
#  
Secretive Linda Jo mourned the death of her son, Billy Joe, religiously with cigarettes and crystal globes of Armagnac. She took refuge beneath extraordinary hairstyles and behind extravagant makeup in the fashion of many of her preceding and contemporary evangelical leading ladies. She believed the heavy mask worn in public concealed any inadvertent facial contortions in reaction to the alcohol-induced hallucinations beginning around the time of Billy Joe’s suicide.  
The frequent and vivid visitations of her bevy of tiny, glittering, golden-haired, winged angels in diaphanous gowns with tipsy, sparkling diadems overhead each plucking a harp were soothing when she was alone. The visions were disconcerting when she was on her husband’s televised, money-grubbing, evangelical program, or entertaining potential donors at home or revivals. The Colonel was not as acutely aware of the phenomenon as Mr. Stork, who knew all Linda Jo’s secrets.  
“Mr. Stork,” Linda Jo inquired at the moment in 2010 the Colonel and the Senator were entering the shooting range, squinting inquisitively, expression dumbing down as low as she could manage, “do you suppose these science people and the ideas of that pagan, Darwin, are having some effect on our efforts to bring God to people in their homes?”  
“You mean like converting people from the side of faith to the side of reason, Miss Fontaine?” Quirky Dan inquired in his best guileless-nerd, blank-face manner while sitting at the computer receipts and ledgers piled in waves threatening to topple the bottle-encased sailing ships on the surface of the enormous Chippendale desk onto the floor. He blinked at Linda Jo, removing his glasses tucking the tip of the frame’s arm between his lips in the fashion of actors attempting to portray intelligence in the 1960s.  
Quirky Dan believed his thick-rimmed spectacles, prim mouth, pencil mustache, and bald pate successfully created the image of a timid, sexually repressed, brainy nerd who would never dream of taking advantage of a witless woman. He was convinced he enhanced his image with coy mannerisms and stilted eccentricities of speech. Quirky Dan thought Linda Jo was impressed and enthralled with his persona.  
The one secret Linda Jo did not share with him was that she was not. However, there was something impressive about Quirky when all his props and paraphernalia were stripped away.  
“Yes, Mr. Stork,” Linda Jo murmured throatily, admiringly searching his eyes as she slid her bottom off the edge of the desk straightening her knee-length, black skirt adjusting the straps of her brassiere beneath her red-silk blouse.  
Linda Jo believed the show must go on: superior, brainy nerd and dumb, buxom blond playing a meaningless game both knowing they’d each ultimately get the best they could get out of the other. The question of who was creating an appropriate illusion for the other to play against and how sufficiently each character was deluding themselves about their ability to perform flirted on the edges of their minds, the real drama threatening the quality of each act and the finale. The health of the egos when the curtain came down might be the point of it all, Linda Jo mused.  
“Yes, Miss Fontaine, I believe they are,” Quirky Dan murmured munching the frames of his glasses in his best suggestive manner hoping he looked ridiculously nerdy-sexy.  
“Well, didn’t you say God gave us computers to combat that sort of devilry?” Linda Jo trying for a sensual retort, fake eyelashes fluttering, smiling at how preposterous he looked hoping Quirky Dan was seeing the inviting smile of a devoted student lusting after a sophisticated intellectual.  
“Yes, Miss Fontaine. Are you suggesting we use the computer as God’s weapon to somehow counteract the works of Satan?” Quirky Dan asked popping to his feet, straightening his tie, replacing his glasses swiping them off loosening his tie nerdy Clark Kent momentarily confused in his transformation into Superman.  
“Oh!” she exclaimed dismay and anxiety successfully covering her impatience with Quirky’s quirks, thinking her reward in act two for putting up with this act-one crap had better be good or act three might get canceled. “We need more people to come to our revivals, Mr. Stork. We need more ticket and book sales, much more audio-cassette, CD, DVD sales, more tax-free donations, Mr. Stork. The fewer sales and donations mean the devil-scientist are seducing people away from God. We need to fill the coffers so the construction of our church can stay on schedule! We’ve had some serious financial setbacks in the past year.”  
“Well, Miss Fontaine,” Quirky Dan responded cocking his head to the right contemplating in a scholarly fashion with whether to continue act one or ramp up the drama taking off his clothes jumping into act three just this once she was so hot so needy, “now, you know, we’ve discussed the protocol and the development of tactics and strategies necessary for turning your revelations and inspirations into realities. Science has been around for a few hundred years. We can’t discredit it overnight.  
“Would you consider pursuing a particular type of scientist? Perhaps focus on a smaller target?” Quirky asked, reason overpowering passion thinking a demonstration of his intelligence might, as usual in act two, still be the most effective segue to act three. That, after all was said and done, had proved to be the successful script so far in their relationship. “You’ll recall we’ve made tentative forays into this arena before and a lack of focus and commitment was our undoing.” Omitting whose focus was at fault.  
“I was just reading about some scientist studying the evolution of society,” Linda Jo demurely frowning disapproval of the word because she was an avid Creationists and demure was more in keeping with act one, excitement and enthusiasm were hallmarks of act two, bold and aggressive was a requisite of act three. “I don’t believe anybody is truly studying that. I believe they are scheming to design and implement… is that the right word… a science utopia, one without religion and guns!”  
“Okay! That narrows it down a little, but research, homework is inevitable,” Quirky stated taking a deep breath composing and seating himself as though preparing for a serious lecture to a child opening the curtain on act two. “Cyber espionage laws need to be re-examined to determine any developments before we initiate this program. Then we need to find any available and trustworthy reinforcements, allies already engaging in the enterprise,” he continued, convincingly nervous anticipation whisking papers and receipts into folders, closing ledgers.  
“For this effort, Miss Fontaine, we will most certainly need to rely on your chorus of angels to provide a multitude of false identities for Facebook and Twitter accounts. That’s one avenue of recruiting the most ignorant confederates and identifying notable targets,” Mr. Stork whispered in a dignified yet conspiratorial manner lips trembling slightly but blue eyes steady and true behind the thick lenses.  
“Yes, Mr. Stork, yes,” Linda Jo acquiesced suppressing an unladylike eagerness until act two was well underway thinking Quirky gets his brainy inspirations about that time coming up with twisted, convoluted avenues of getting into computer systems like wormholes in space collecting data and retrieving it through different channels or wormholes or black holes which were holographic or some such shit and every last bit of it completely undetected by the victims. Linda Jo moistened her lips tongue gliding provocatively over the ruby-red lipstick.  
“Okay!” he exclaimed thumping his neat piles of paperwork. “We have arrived at an understanding!”  
At the computer, Linda Jo firmly seated herself on Quirky Dan’s lap. She was faster on the keyboard following his instructions to the letter. She chain-smoked, gulped Armagnac act two proceeding according to script, her mind drifting into an alternate, simultaneous plot scheming to get her son out of roasting in Hell. Linda Jo sincerely believed if she did something spectacularly damaging to science with enduring results she could balance the books compensating God for Billy Joe’s release from Satan’s realm.

Chapter Nineteen  
Johnson and Masters

The first waves of culture shock were battering Astarte in the year 2000 in backwater Albuquerque when word of Billy Joe’s suicide in Afghanistan arrived. Following the funeral and the subsequent departures of older brothers David Joe, Jackie Joe, and Bobby Joe back to their respective military stations, Astarte suffered a breakdown requiring psychiatric counseling for several months.  
“My brothers abused me when I was young,” Astarte lied certain of the protection of doctor-patient confidentiality, deciding misleading mental health professionals could be amusing. “Billy Joe was the worst.”  
Sobbing for her lost, pseudo-independence, Astarte was content for her parents to believe the lie her brother’s death was the root of her problem. The truth was she couldn’t cope with the idea of remaining in Albuquerque where the challenges to her manipulative and gaming talents were minimal, and members of the One Percent, her greatly anticipated targets, were scarce. She desperately wanted to be somewhere she could acquire and maintain important status and respect among the most powerful elite of America and homeless men were a dime a dozen. The full lips she inherited from her mother became pouty.  
“What can I do doctor?” Astarte sighed and lied. “I loved my brothers but I desperately wanted my father.”  
When she was tired of the charade, Astarte allowed her psychiatrist to believe he guided her into an epiphany, steering her back into her chosen profession of psychology specializing in people with sexual dysfunctions. She persuaded Papa Joe to fork out the funds for the office lease, furniture, computers, personal library, and personnel salaries. Astarte wistfully hung her framed magna cum laude degrees in her office, reminiscing on the deaths of the homeless in her wake.  
For a few years Astarte dutifully, although somewhat listlessly, practiced her craft, achieving a certain standing in her profession, returning to the rodeo crowd via her stock operation, fraternizing with the UNM academic circle, establishing a sterling position within Albuquerque’s high society such as it was.  
At some point over the years, after Astarte settled in a resigned fashion into her practice and her life achieved a kind of dull equilibrium, she sensed something was eerily amiss as though the balance in Nature was tipping slightly off-kilter. In the months following the commencement of this niggling, mysterious feeling, she garnered bits and pieces of gossip from her social circle, professors, ranchers, and bartenders rekindling her interest in life. She realized a challenge to her manipulative skills was swimming somewhere in the boondocks of backwater Albuquerque.  
Gurd Khase proved to be an elusive target for her even though he was in his final months as a student in a master’s program in anthropology at UNM, which Astarte thought would keep him on campus. Colossally stimulated after years in the doldrums, she used every trick in her vast repertoire to gather in a painstakingly patient, subtle, and methodical manner whatever tidbit from whoever she could about the man (she was seven years his senior and a woman of her standing couldn’t be seen blatantly chasing someone younger and wealthier).  
“Let’s be realistic,” Astarte said seemingly disinterested, slightly exasperated halfway through lunch in the spring of 2008 with museology professor Caroline Belmond, “you know as well as I intelligence isn’t necessary to enter or graduate from any college even the most prestigious Ivy League. Wealthy people with dim children simply donate money, buy their child a degree. Bush, Princeton?”  
Dressed in an Oscar De La Renta aquamarine, double-breasted blazer, peach blouse, and khaki pants, Astarte did not cast aspersions on her lunch partner’s institution by mentioning Neve Khase, mother of Gurd Khase was Caroline’s colleague at the University of New Mexico. Brazenly stating to a tenured professor, sporting a ponytail and dressed in a dark pant-suit plucked from the racks at Target, that the national, higher education system, in general, lacked integrity was close enough to rude. Further suggesting the honor of UNM was in question to a loyal member of its faculty would be insulting. Astarte had worked weeks ingratiating herself to Caroline and couldn’t afford to lose her footing at this point. She pecked at her Salade Niçoise took a small sip of a champagne cocktail.  
“Yes,” Caroline replied, gaze drifting up from her fork gliding into the remains of her Salade Lyonnaise to Astarte’s eyes, “the parents are wealthy, but Gurd is brilliant. He’s not some big, handsome dimwit. His bachelor’s degree is a double in art history and museology and he’s graduating with a master’s in anthropology with a specialization in archaeology. Accepted at Harvard to work on his doctorate.  
“The young man is active,” Caroline continued as she lowered fork to plate, glancing down at her slender waist smoothing the napkin on her trim lap, “progressively involved in UNESCO behind-the-scenes negotiations for the repatriation of antiquities with his father, Lugal. A person’s contributions to efforts of that nature have to be sharp, knowledgeable to remain involved even in an unofficial capacity. People at UNESCO recognize Khase father and son, listen to their advice offered pro bono.  
“Few people in the United States or the UK,” Caroline said quietly, applying napkin to lips sipping chardonnay, “are aware of the Khase family’s antiquities brokerage power in the Mediterranean, the Middle East, and Asia. A few curators in American and British anthropology and art museums are beginning to understand the Khase role in repatriation. They’re realizing the battles lost over artifacts and objects with Egypt, India, and China are, in essence, being won by the Khase’s. The Brits may well lose the Kohinoor Diamond to Indian shortly because of Lugal.  
“The Pushkin Museum in Moscow,” Caroline said replacing her wineglass on the table a sigh suggesting she was full, satisfied, “will be repatriating King Priam’s treasure to Turkey before the decade is over. The Khase’s hate the Russians. Rumor has it they had a role in the failure of the Soviet Republic.”  
“King Priam’s treasure?” Astarte paused heart racing at the thought of puppets dancing on strings bringing down an empire.  
“A misnomer,” Caroline answered with a smile. “The German archaeologist, Schliemann, dug up a small horde of gold and silver objects during his excavations of Troy in 1873 and attributed it to the king who ruled the city when it was attacked and sacked by the Greeks. The Trojan War? Homer’s The Iliad? He took the priceless artifacts back to Germany and some Russians took it when they plundered Berlin after War World Two.”  
“Involvement in UNESCO suggests politically connected people,” Astarte raised her eyebrows inquisitively certain her tone conveyed bare interest.  
“Neve says her husband’s association with UNESCO is unusual,” Caroline said dropping her napkin on the table eyes holding Astarte’s gaze. “They have no political party affiliations, don’t contribute, endorse or advocate any national government, or any religious system. I get the impression they only deal with the people who have the real power.”  
Astarte drove directly to Linda Jo’s house and demanded Quirky Dan get on the internet promptly and find out all he could on the identity of the Khase bankers and the size of the Khase fortune. Subtle, painstaking strategy replaced by the need for immediacy.  
“And, if you need to take a break,” Astarte ordered huskily, lips curling, harpy’s eyes blazing at the terrified, cowering account, “search for and order me the most recent books summarizing antiquities and repatriation the last twenty years! Get me UNESCO stuff on the subject! I’ll give you until dinner!”  
“You never learned to behave like that from me,” Linda Jo clucked disapprovingly popping a breath mint shaking her head.  
A few hours later on the banks of the Rio Grande dressed in Wrangler shirt, jeans, and boots, Astarte was munching on freshly grilled calf liver with the Colonel. She gulped Cabernet from her flask absently listening to her father, the crackling embers of the fire, vision registering twilight settling on the river, eyes distant.  
“You would’ve made a better soldier than any of your brothers,” the Colonel said sitting on the log next to Astarte, swallowing, wiping chin with shirt sleeve inserting a cigar. “Navy Seal is more your style. Stealthy. Where you going?”  
“Joey Hals still moving stock and bartending at night?” Astarte said grabbing her horse’s reins swinging into the saddle untying the rope flinging it onto the little corpse flies buzzing.  
“Yeah,” Buddy Joe responded puzzled, “and part owner down at The Wise Ass.”  
Astarte raced back to the apartment above her office, changed into a Renta, mid-calf, black-satin, pencil dress, matching three-inch heels, applied just enough mauve lipstick to moisten her mouth, mussed her heavy lob stilling the hearts of several Wise Ass patrons when she walked in an hour after she left Heaven. She smiled at Joey Hals like there was no other man in the world.  
“Pal Joey,” she said eyes glittering lips luscious. “Are there still men in Albuquerque who haven’t learned their lesson?”  
“Some of ‘em get drunk and forget,” Joey Hals replied grinning, suspiciously eying his former classmate with the eye that wasn’t quite black, swollen nearly shut.  
A high school steer wrestler and UNM freshman-dropout, Joey was big and handsome a range bull taking up all the space reflected in the mirror extending behind the forty-foot bar. The scores of liquor bottles on the stacked shelves looking like the miniatures served on air flights, the equally long counter little more than a watering trough hogged by the top bull.  
“S’up, A-Star-Tee LA-Gash,” Joey rumbled crinkling the starched white tuxedo shirt creasing the yellow cummerbund decorated with images of bucking donkeys crossing his arms resting elbows on the counter a casualness reflecting their long, but not deep, history.  
“How’d you know?” Astarte asked truly startled eyes wide setting her mauve-silk purse on the shiny mahogany surface taking a stool noting with satisfaction in the shimmering mirror every rancher in the place was staring her way. On the walls in the mellow track-lighting colorful illustrations of Maud the Mule, melancholy donkey Eeyore, Gus, Wonky Donkey, Platero, glossy photos of mule-dressage competitions, posters of Francis the Talking Mule and twenty-mule teams hauling borax in Death Valley. Tall-saguaro and squat-barrel, papier-mâché cactus along the walls sporting donkey faces or spiny, green appendages resembling donkey ears, tails, hooves, or hindquarters.  
“Not hard,” Joey replied smiling knowing when Astarte was being genuine and when she was not. “Lots of French names turned American, like La Ramie, Laramie. La Fontaine, Lafontaine, or Fontaine, La Fayette, Lafayette. What can I get you?”  
“A Dom cocktail, please,” Astarte watching Joey lift from the counter passing a hand over his short blond hair down along the red sideburns spreading at the bottom almost to his heavy, crooked chin, listening to the conversations behind her resume the faint country music of the sound system.  
“You know all the horse breeds,” Astarte said taking a sip smiling approval. Tell me about Kabarda. Any good for the rodeo?”  
“Tough and beautiful,” Joey said pausing to listen to a waitress order reaching for bottles and glasses. “Originated in the Caucasus Mountains east of the Black Sea, a mix of Turkoman, Karabakh, and Arabian, probably related to the Cleveland Bay. Clean-built good endurance horse, easy to train if you’re teaching ‘em something difficult,” scooping ice, pouring liquor, nothing fancy for ranchers or their wives.  
“Nah, can’t think of anything in rodeo they’d be better at than Quarter horses,” Joey said adding a lime wedge to a glass rim.  
“A little Kabarda mixed with another breed is good for improving some qualities,” Joey smiled at the waitress setting the drinks on her tray quickly making change. “There’s been some Kabarda blood in Olympic winners. Jumpers, not so much dressage.  
“Not too many of the breed in the state, but the lady that bought the spread out between the reservations on the east side of Interstate 25 has a small herd,” Joey abruptly stopped, giving Astarte a quizzical stare grabbing a towel wiping the counter. “The one whose property abuts the land the Colonel bought to build his church. Zack is the blacksmith she uses. He says she’s real particular.  
“Oh?” Astarte scooted her empty glass over for a refill extracting bills from her purse. “She lives all by herself with a herd of horses?”  
#  
Astarte wrangled an invitation to Gurd’s graduation ceremony from Caroline. She spent a few nervous hours at her apartment with her cosmetologists then slipped into an Oscar De La Renta, cream, satin jacket, skirt, and lavender blouse. When they were both satisfied all the highlighting streaks of Astarte’s hair, and light makeup complimented the color of the pantsuit and gold and amethyst accessories the woman drove her to the department reception to prevent the incidental wrinkles, and smudges driving might have on the total effect.  
Astarte believed she had crammed enough stuff about antiquities, repatriation, and UNESCO to impress Caroline. Even though she was discreet and tactful with her endeavors to engage him, she got the impression Gurd condescendingly avoided her, adroitly evaded her every approach. In a despairing fury, she left the celebration before making a fool of herself when she learned Gurd was moving that week to study for his doctorate at Harvard. Back at her apartment, she sat on the floor satin shimmering jewelry glittering flipping the pages of her gory scrapbooks sucking on an unlit cigar.  
#  
Astarte channeled her frustration into secretive sexual exploits and illicit affairs gratifying only by a narrow margin until she discovered she was particularly excited by men of color, mainly Mexicans and American Indians, losers on the fringes of society. She found crude and uncouth gardeners, range cowboys (not rodeo performers), taxi drivers, and bartenders serving in dives to be the most stimulating. She thought they’d be easy to kill and dispose of if the whim struck her or one of them crossed her.  
Astarte didn’t deceive herself about her penchant for these men having something to do with Papa Joe’s racist bigotry. She was incredibly aroused by the thought of her father discovering her with such a man, flaying him alive, maybe murdering him grilling, eating the heart and liver.  
Astarte decided she needed a trashy alternate identity and a secret residence for her trysts. She needed to have a material, tangible alternate identity to carry on the deception as a sterling persona for the world of Caucasian professionals. Leasing a condo with a two-car garage in a quiet complex in a modest neighborhood, she acquired brassy, blond wigs, and a slutty wardrobe from thrift stores. The furnishings she purchased at the Salvation Army. She became a dirty blond, Tammi Johnson, keeping an old, red El Camino in the garage for her carousing.  
Frustrated at not being in one of the major urban centers where she could fulfill her fantasies as a puppet master of the rich and powerful and slayer of the homeless, powerless, Astarte compensated by escalating her secret, illicit and dangerous personal liaisons. She rented a small house with a fenced yard with a two-car garage in a suburb, assuming an identity as Lucille Masters. For Lucille, she bought a more demure, impoverished style of second-hand clothing, scruffy, red wigs, and a previously owned, yellow Toyota truck. Astarte-Lucille was troubled at finding herself in the Goodwill store oddly intrigued, fascinated as she selected the furniture, lamps, and appliances, surrounding herself with the trappings of losers.  
She also acquired the necessary and convincing make-up for a redhead and a blond much to the dismay of her cosmetologist. Astarte Lagash never wore much more than a minimum of cosmetics.  
The Mexican gardener, who Lucille hired to take care of the lawn and ornamentals at the little house, provided her with some personal entertainment and release from her frustrations. When he failed to show up at his scheduled time one day before she could even call to complain the Mexican owner of the landscape architect firm arrived to fill in for him. He introduced himself as Batista Barakaldo.  
Astarte-Lucille was charmed by the man’s rugged manners, and incongruent polished, professional appearance. That he was several years younger than she only aroused her more watching Batista manicure her lawn in his shiny cowboy boots, pressed blue jeans, and a crisp, long-sleeve, pink shirt. With a glint in her big, hazel-gray eyes Lucille Masters invited him in for a cold glass of tea after he finished.  
The following week Tammi Johnson drove from her condo to the Sandia Pueblo casino in the red El Camino, targeting and capturing the heart of one Native American who, she was surprised to learn, was named Felipé Karabaldo. She was delighted to discover he was Batista’s younger half-brother and the two men hated each other. Life as a danger freak in backwater Albuquerque instantly acquired exciting new dimensions, and for a brief period, Gurd Khase was forgotten.

Chapter Twenty  
Man Killer and New Purpose

Ethan awoke in a familiar state of mind but an unfamiliar setting. He was quick with his assessment even though he was face down on a bed his head under pillows. At first, he thought the soft voices were Chester and Wade but after brief consideration, he knew it was Gurd and Sam.  
“Crap ‘n’ hell!” he wailed surprising no one more than himself. As a rule, he didn’t use what he considered strong language.  
“You can come out now honey-buddy,” Sam said as Ethan sensed him sitting gently on the edge of the bed. “The doctor says you’ll be okay.”  
“Am I in the hospital?” Ethan murmured unwilling to come out heart sinking recalling the mayhem in the garden.  
“No,” Gurd said as the other side of the bed lowered when he sat next to Ethan. “You’re in my bedroom in my mom’s home. There was a doctor at the reception. He said you’d be fine but might need some medication when you woke so Sam went home to get your pack. It’s’ here.”  
“Glass of water, please Hurdy-Gurdy?” Ethan mumbled relieved to feel the bed move and hear a door close.  
Ethan turned over flinging pillows eyes wildly searching for his pack. Only seconds after spotting it he zipped open the small compartment on the left side unscrewed the bottle and gulped a large Hasammeli pellet.  
“That was a first impression to end all first impressions on not just Gurd but fifty other people,” Sam grinned removing his phone from his pocket. “Want to see some pictures I took?”  
“You took pictures?” Ethan was aghast almost choking eyes bugging face flushing.  
“Yep!” Sam’s grin growing broader. “I tried to film it but you guys were moving too fast for me to follow. Two people were quicker than me so they got some good footage.”  
“What time is it? Is there a side door?” Ethan muttered while unzipping removing a roll of cash tossing it to Sam. “Please give most of this to Gurd’s mom for the damages and a few thousand to the couple as a wedding gift, Sam.”  
“It’s almost four,” Sam said glancing at his phone catching the bundle.  
“Hurry and let’s go,” Ethan muttered urgently while rubbing his face. “Gurd will be glad to see me gone.”  
“No, he won’t,” Gurd said closing the door holding a bottle of Highland Springs.  
#  
“How about steak and lobster for dinner?” Gurd asked, flicking hair from his forehead, settling in the gray Jeep Cherokee. He switched on the ignition, opening the sunroof, waving to Sam, his mother, and aunt while maintaining steady eye contact with Ethan. “I can get fresh meat and lobster at a market downtown.”  
“Freshwater fish and seafood are fine as long as you don’t drop a living creature into boiling water,” Ethan replied smiling softly, slightly trembling. He kept his left hand on top of Gurd’s on the gearshift. With the fingertips of his right hand, he checked to make certain his lips were not bleeding.  
“I don’t eat meat. Dairy, bread, fruit, and vegetables are all fine with me,” Ethan’s voice low, controlled.  
“Okay, we’ll drop by a market and pick up whatever you like,” Gurd said nodding. He smiled putting the Jeep in gear shifting his eyes to the driveway.  
“Is that newsstand, or bookstore that sells Sunday papers other than New Mexico publications still in business?” Ethan asked gazing at Gurd’s profile. He wondered if Brónach-tarbh and Ethan’s netherworld counterpart were having a conversation about dinner. “Could we tune in a station likely to report on the fire?”  
“Yep and yep,” Gurd replied poking the radio buttons. “The Newsmaker has about everything. Need to stop by there?”  
“Yeah,” Ethan replied. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket pressing it against his chin to check for blood in his beard. He was both relieved and disappointed nothing in Gurd’s behavior indicated he was aware of Ethan’s netherworld relationship with Gurd’s unconscious.  
#  
They held hands walking across the market parking lot. Ethan placed his hand over Gurd’s hand on the shopping-cart handle inside the store. Gurd was mildly surprised when Ethan suddenly jerked his hand away while they were checking the produce section. Pausing with a pack of trimmed celery in his hand, Gurd glanced at Ethan.  
Gurd was concerned watching the sharp, intelligent look in the green eyes dull. He was puzzled as the features of Ethan’s face softened into what Gurd thought of as a blank-face, smiling-simpleton affectation. Gurd turned to follow Ethan’s gaze mildly startled to hear Ethan raise the pitch of his voice.  
“Felipé!”  
“Hey! Ethan! Dude!” exclaimed a stout American Indian man with short dark hair, extending his right arm walking up shaking hands with Ethan.  
Thinking she looked familiar, Gurd considered the voluptuous blond wearing too much makeup standing next to the man. Momentarily, she solemnly and intently returned Gurd’s gaze. She switched quickly to a brilliantly charming smile at Ethan as Felipé introduced her. The woman briefly glanced back at Gurd when Ethan introduced him to the couple. Ethan reached for tomatoes juggling four.  
“Call me!” Felipé encouraged Ethan as they parted after a short enthusiastic exchange. “You still got my number?”  
“You bet!” Ethan grinning dropping the tomatoes in the cart jabbing his right thumb in the air.  
Perplexed, Gurd watched the softness in features and dullness in the green eyes vanish. The sharp intellect returning to Ethan’s face as the couple turned walking away. Bewildered, he stared at Ethan.  
“Did you recognize her?” Ethan murmured surreptitiously from the corner of his mouth, reaching down for a bundle of green onions.  
“She’s been chasing you for years,” Ethan lowered his voice thoughtfully, feeling warm, effusive.  
“That’s Astarte Lagash. She’s wearing a wig,” Ethan whispered lifting his eyebrows head canting slightly as he examined the bundle. He wondered if he’d ever figure out the proper dosage for the Hasammeli gold.  
Just as Gurd was bagging a bunch of mangoes and papayas, turning his head to take a look over his shoulder his lips encountered Ethan’s lips. Gurd did not respond to his immediate reaction to jerk away from such a display of affection with a man in public. He loved Ethan. Nothing else mattered.  
Ethan nearly laughed at the confusion evident in Gurd’s expression as he gently withdrew from the kiss. Ethan cleared his throat.  
“Let me explain,” Ethan sighed oblivious to the world at that moment. He needed only to respond to Gurd’s concern.  
“I didn’t want you staring at her with a look of recognition at her disguise if Miss Lagash happened to turn to look back at us,” Ethan continued reaching for the tomatoes juggling. “She’s a dangerous woman, Gurd. We don’t want to act in any manner giving Astarte Lagash the idea we could disrupt or disclose any of her secrets and schemes. By the way, Felipé is the son of the woman, Señora Karabaldo, you plan to meet Tuesday about investigating the archaeological site on her property.”  
“Didn’t you just get to Albuquerque?” Gurd asked, head lowering drawing closer to Ethan, eyes squinting, brow furrowed. “How do you know all this stuff?”  
“Sam helped a little and I know some well-informed New Mexicans,” Ethan replied moving closer to Gurd eyes locking. His whisper animated, tomatoes bouncing between them, “It’s my business to know this stuff.  
“Felipé is an eco-terrorist, but he just likes to blow up things, not a person with principles. I believe he wants to be something glamorous and exciting, not do something honorable, worthwhile,” Ethan continued, drawing back, adding in an offhand manner, “I accidentally ran into him and a few of his associates one night on my trip down here.  
“Felipé is also a Coyote. Mexicans and South Americans pay him to guide them into the United States. Some of the men become unpaid labor at the oil operations down in the southeastern part of the state,” Ethan muttered, dropping the tomatoes in the basket.  
Ethan gripped Gurd’s hand on the handle of the cart slowly rolling down the aisle. He realized his effort in resolving Gurd’s confusion needed conciseness to be effective, not rambling on into tangential subjects. The Hasammeli gold tended to diminish his ability to focus.  
“The owners of the drilling rigs give away the Mexican and Central American women, girls, and boys who are taken to work as sex slaves,” Ethan sighed. Tales of social and environmental injustices were sickeningly, exasperatingly commonplace but each was a burden on Ethan’s mind. “His human trafficking activities involve Astarte’s parents, but she doesn’t know. I suspect the Lagash ranch hands and maybe the Colonel are sexually abusing the women and children Felipé transports before they are traded as sex slaves. There are few things more despicable than treating people fearful and uncertain of their future that way.  
“Felipé’s brother, Batista,” Ethan said voice steady concealing his weariness of innumerable, everyday tragedies, “is a drug smuggler, mostly meth and marijuana, but Felipé doesn’t know it, and Batista doesn’t know Felipé is an eco-terrorist and human trafficker. Neither of them knows they are dating the same woman.  
“Astarte uses a different name when she’s with Batista,” Ethan said mellowing sobering from the look of increasing incredulity from Gurd. “Señora Karabaldo is clueless, but her sons haven’t lived at home for years. Those two guys are distinct cases of nature overwhelming nurture.  
“Astarte has two residences for her shenanigans and wears a red wig when she’s with Batista,” Ethan’s voice returning to near normal volume, tone lightening. He was winding down the revelation of his relationship with Felipé, and how Astarte fit into the picture. “The Señora’s sons have hated each other since they were kids at home. If either one of them gets wind of the truth, they may both end up dead. Astarte would probably get a kick out of that. That woman is a man-killer.  
“What is your line of work, Ethan?” Gurd asked in an even, noncommittal manner, mesmerized gaze unlocking. He turned to examine shrimp and cuts of salmon in the fresh-seafood display. He was uncertain if he should be alarmed, or chuckle at Ethan’s shifting expressions and steady diatribe.  
“I was a professional clown as a kid and switched to bullfighting,” Ethan raised his voice to the normal volume. In response to Gurd’s skeptical expression, whispering in a spirited fashion, “That’s a cover. I’m something like an insurrectionist dedicated to covertly dealing hell to corporations and other interests detrimental to the environment. Gives my life purpose, laughs.”  
“Is that a long-winded way of saying you’re an eco-terrorists too?” Gurd asked uncertainly, glancing around for Felipé and Astarte.  
“Shhh!” Ethan hissed ducking his head theatrically, lowering his eyebrows. “Keep your voice down, and quit gaping. People are staring.”  
“People have been staring since we walked in the door!” Gurd lowering his voice raising his eyebrows eyes wide wondering if Ethan couldn’t have noticed.  
“Well, you know,” Ethan straightened up, puffing out his chest flapping his hand back and forth between them. He dabbed at his lip checking his fingertips for blood. He shrugged, tucking in his chin cocking his head to the right, lifting his eyebrows as though what he was leaving unsaid was obvious.  
“That’s just our lot,” he continued when Gurd only shook his head, puzzled expression indicating his confusion. “You know, being big, hunky and handsome. And just look at the torn and dirty condition of these fancy, obviously expensive clothes. Are we not hot? Who wouldn’t stare?”  
Gurd noticed most people attempting not to stare as Ethan swept up an armful of bouquets at the floral kiosk, paid for their purchases from a wad of cash and they left the store. He thought most of the people were successful. Gurd was not successful at stifling his laughter resigning himself to the idea there are times in every person’s life when laughter just seems to overwhelm any attempt to be stifled.  
Ethan loved the sound of Gurd’s laughter. It gave him a new purpose in life.  
  
Chapter Twenty-One  
Hurdy Gurdy Man and Favorites

“Yee! Haw!” Ethan instantly expressed his amazement when Gurd closed the door to his condo. Ethan could barely believe his eyes as they adjusted to the light.  
“Yeah, I know,” Gurd nodded jaw clenched eyes shifting setting the groceries on the kitchen counter storing things in the refrigerator. “Mom lived here before her house was built. I came to help her move out of this place and settle into her new home in the summer of 2001. I hadn’t intended to stay in the United States, but she and Dad wouldn’t let me travel after 911. She had all this redecoration completed in the first six months I was here hoping to cushion the blow giving me this place.”  
“This is enough to make Thomas Molesworth weep with joy!” Ethan roaming-eyes wide exclaiming dropping his big pack, lowering the flowers to the counter.  
On the right side, a limestone counter extended about ten feet an electric range in the middle. The lower cabinets hand-carved with images of cowboys, American Indians, livestock, and wildlife matched those on the wall over and under the sink. Dark hardwood framing the lighter panels. A double-door, stainless steel refrigerator. At the far end of the counter stood a dining set, heavy, rough-hewn ladder-back chairs with cattle horns extending 90 degrees from each side at the top. Light from the lowering sun filtered softly through the sheer curtains hung on the window framed with Rubber Tree plants. Gardenia, cannabis, and khat plants, which Ethan had seen in the apartments of several of his friends in the Bay Area, lined the long, deep window sill potted jasmine hung from the ceiling.  
The mantel over the fireplace with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on both sides on the south side of the room were carved like the kitchen cabinets no two images the same. Glittering blue sand drifted between the globes of a seven-foot, sapphire-enamel grandfather hourglass in the corner next to another big window with a profusion of plants. Pale-turquoise carpeting. The plush sofa and matching chairs Parisian-blue leather with big brass tacks. An indigo, Navajo blanket lay folded on the back of the sofa. Where there was space, prints of Maxfield Parish southwestern landscapes hung on the walls. The coffee and smaller tables with polished tops on legs of tangled driftwood roots. A portable hourglass with azure sand, spherical candles various hues of gray, distinctive black ceramics of the Tewa potter, Maria Martinez.  
“Hey! I have two just like those,” Ethan said pointing at the Dirk van Erp mica-shade lamps on the small tables while stuffing flowers into the vases Gurd handed him.  
The staircase banister at the east end a hedgehog of cattle horns. Next to the stairway and left of the front door was a double set of sliding mirrored-doors opening into a big dressing room and a closet containing winter coats and bathrobes on the right. Washer and dryer on the left. Beyond this area was a bathroom with a long counter cradling two lavatories, and a mirror extending down the wall to a hot tub. A shower, towel racks, shelves, and toilet in a cubicle stood against the wall opposite the lavatories.  
“Let’s get these clothes off and soak away some of the sweat and grime,” Gurd suggested pressing buttons on the sound system the first lyrical, piano-solo of Mendelssohn’s six “Songs Without Words” floating from the speakers.  
Ethan arranged the flowers, placing two overflowing vases on the counter, one on the dining table, and one between the bathroom lavatories. The fifth, he explained dimples showing below the freshly trimmed beard was for the bedroom. Suddenly drowsy, Ethan stifled a yawn.  
“Nice locker room,” Ethan joked slapping Gurd on the butt as they moved to the tub after undressing.  
“Hey, Sailor!” Wee Clown murmured lasciviously in Scottish brogue causing Gurd to jerk away in surprise laughing as he was leaning to turn on the water.  
“That’s Wee Clown, has his makeup and costumes, tough little bugger,” Ethan whispered, briefly glancing down at himself then returning to look at Gurd eyebrows raised. “He likes to make people laugh. Once he thinks he’s got your attention he gets demanding. Trust me Hurdy Gurdy.”   
“Bite me!” Wee Clown retorted eliciting another explosive chuckle from Gurd.  
“Can be bitchy when horny,” Ethan slowly and silently mouthed ending inadvertently with a yawn shaking his head.  
“Not what I call wee,” Gurd laughed.  
Stepping into the steaming, gently swirling water, they kissed once briefly on the lips. Comfortably seated in a light embrace, water up to their chests they listened to the music. Serene, peaceful.  
“Do you, by chance, know the first lines of “Hurdy Gurdy Man”?” Gurd asked leaning to briefly examine Ethan’s punctured lips. He glanced up into Ethan's eyes, shifting reclining, his back against Ethan’s body head on Ethan’s shoulder. Gurd gripped Ethan’s hands folding them across his chest.  
Relaxed and on the brink of dozing, Ethan shut his eyes singing in a voice he thought similar to Donovan’s throaty rendition:  
“Thrown like a star in my vast sleep I opened my eyes to take a peek,” he peeked down at Gurd relaxed, sleepy.  
“Ethan, I had a dream you did exactly that,” Gurd whispered.  
“To find that I was by the sea gazing with tranquility,” Ethan concluded closing his eyes sensing the swirling water weaving Gurd’s thick hair into his beard.  
“And were you in the dream or just me rocketing out of the sky?” Ethan murmured. He felt utterly, happily in love a tear slowly coursing down each cheek.  
“In the dream, I brought you home so you’re a dream come true,” Gurd murmured as though speaking to himself to hear how it sounded. “Why do I feel like I’ve known you forever? Ever dream of me, Ethan?”  
“Well… sort of,” Ethan managed quietly after clearing his throat tightening his grip on Gurd’s hands, no more tears welling from deep within his laughing, exulting heart, “Let me tell you in another moment like this sometime… when it feels right for me.”  
“There’s a statute in Italy that reminds me of you,” Gurd said twisting his head to look up at Ethan.  
“Hercules and Cacus by the sculptor Baccio Bandinelli,” Gurd said softly as he turned slightly looking up into Ethan’s eyes. “Stands at the entrance of the Palazzo Vecchio in the Piazza della Signoria, in Florence. The figure isn’t overly muscular like most Hercules statues. The marble might be a little whiter than your skin, but he’s taller at about five meters.”  
Ethan thought Gurd was not only the most handsome but the sexiest man in the world, staring up with those indigo eyes below the down-sweeping eyelashes, the smooth, broad brow, the dark, straight eyebrows, the straight nose, the full, firm lips, and the small cleft nestled in the strong chin. He imagined Gurd’s innocent, young face staring up in wonder at the statute.  
Ethan switched on his clown face beaming the frozen grin and locked eyes of ‘Embarrassment’, shifting into the modest touch-of-a-smile and down-turned eyes of ‘Shyness’.  
“Did you learn those affectations, as a kid in clown school?” Gurd chuckling softly flicking hair from his brow turning his head to rest on Ethan’s chest.  
“Yep, clown and acting and mime lessons,” Ethan replied nodding.  
“I can’t think of a statue or painting that reminds me of you, Gurd, but you are the hottest man God ever created,” Ethan said softly. He enjoyed the sound the feel of Gurd’s laughter against his chest the way it made his spine tingle. Gurd’s laughter—the new purpose in his life.  
“On the other hand, you are downright angelic when you laugh. Sweet as an angel.”  
“People used to tell me that all the time when I was a kid in Scotland,” Gurd said, suddenly somber and sleepy closing his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night.”  
“Tell me something Gurd,” Ethan said softly. “Were you having a PTSD episode back there in the garden when we were engaged?”  
“Sam has told you all about me, huh?” Gurd murmured. “Yeah, kind of. It was one of the abbreviated-hybrid episodes. No visions, but intense sensations like impacts to the body, breathlessness, being gripped by something invisible, leaves me drained, disoriented. Bam! Into a world of physically battering sensations. Bam! Back again. It’s the mentally battering experiences that are the worst. What about you? Seemed you were grappling with something existential.”  
“Birthing pains!” Ethan huffed and chuckled.  
“So what was the issue?” Gurd whispered languidly.  
“Love,” Ethan exhaling eyes drooping.  
Gurd sighed nodding rubbing his head sleepily against Ethan’s chest. Ethan silently cradled Gurd’s hands in his, gently rested his chin in the thick, dark hair as Gurd drifted off to sleep.  
Feeling drained, Ethan gazed at the surface of the glistening, swirling water contemplating what two, glittering sparkling horned Riddles in the Netherworld were doing. Finally, expressing their love?  
“Let’s have dinner,” Gurd murmured a few minutes later clearing his throat. “All this laughing, and trying not to laugh so hard that I look like a simpleton in public has given me a big appetite.”  
They showered briefly as the water quickly drained from the tub. They toweled each other dry. Ethan roughly tousling Gurd’s hair.  
“You’ve got a thick head of hair,” Ethan commented as Gurd turned muscles rippling beneath tanned skin to retrieve a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and T-shirts.  
“You’ve got a thick body of hair,” Gurd chuckling pitching Ethan shirt and shorts eyes sparkling perfect teeth flashing.  
“You’re about as hairless as a man gets,” Ethan responded pointing as Gurd pulled on his T-shirt walking into the kitchen. “A little, black nest in the middle of your chest and a trickle down to your navel.”  
Eyebrows rising slightly, nodding in agreement, Gurd popped the cork on a bottle of Chardonnay and began preparing dinner, setting out butter, olive oil, and seasoning. Ethan wandered around gazing at the framed prints on the walls and sculptures on the floor. He frequently glanced at Gurd, watching his face the way he moved, held his head, neck straight while offering a glass of wine, rinsing, dicing, and seasoning. Ethan thought from every angle no matter what he was doing Gurd, even dozing in the swirling water of the tub, unvaryingly personified integrity and honesty.  
Gurd punched a control panel in the kitchen starting something on the sound system, classical, distinctly Italian which Ethan didn’t immediately recognize. He quietly hummed along trying to identify what it was as he strolled gazing at the Maxfield Parrish landscapes. Noticing the big pillows on long leather sofa and chairs were silk woven in the pattern of Georgia O’Keefe’s vivid painting Blue, Black and Grey.  
“Sam says you do a bit of clowning,” Ethan said admiring the two-foot-tall, bronze copies of Bucking Bronco, Riding down the Buffalo, and Mustangs by the sculptor Alexander Proctor.  
“Underprivileged kids are an easy audience,” Gurd replied pouring, sipping wine. “The strings of colorful scarves I pull from my sleeve are sterile wipes I use to teach them hygiene. I take several bushels of fruit to juggle and a couple of dozen loaves of zucchini and nut bread from a bakery, a gallon of honey to teach about nutrition. On full stomachs, they’re a happy bunch.  
“Balloons and some simple magic tricks are enough to keep them cheerful and smiling for a few hours,” Gurd said, gathering a paring knife, vegetable peeler, and sieve. “There’s always enough left over for them to take some home. Makes me happy.”  
Ethan was impressed with the collection of film CDs on the shelves around the big, flat screen and DVD. He considered all fifty or more to be classics nothing relying on a lot of visual effects, sex, or violence to compensate for lack of story or acting, several in black-and-white.  
“This is my favorite movie, Kubrick’s Doctor Strangelove,” Ethan said fingertip gliding along the titles. “Where the irresponsible, rich, and powerful accidentally set off the destruction of the world and everyone in it with nuclear bombs and discuss absconding to underground bunkers to wait until it’s safe to come out.  
“You’ve got Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, futuristic, dystopian Britain, violence and rape committed by youth gangs set to classical music… psychopaths, prison, and therapy!” Ethan chuckling bright eyes dancing. “WOW! Brazil, another dystopian future with terrorists pitted against government bureaucracy and the rich. And girl dreams an alternate reality, The Wizard of Oz, the number one fantasy movie ever made. Casa Blanca, Gone With The Wind, Fellini’s Satyricon, The Clowns, and La Dolce Vita! Gurd this is a priceless, fantastic collection! Do you have a favorite?”  
“I’m not much of a movie buff. Western theater from the beginning with the Greeks through Shakespeare right up into early US cinema had female characters who behaved like women, acted, and reacted like women. Male characters who acted and reacted like men,” Gurd said, earnest, exasperated, shaking his head frowning as he finished dicing green onions and celery opening a bag of shrimp, nibbling mushrooms. “That’s no longer the case. Now you’ve got writers and directors transposing men’s actions and reactions onto women characters.  
“Women, both performers, and viewers should be outraged,” Gurd muttered rinsing his hands and the cutting board head turning searching for something, reaching for a copper saucepan. “Women are just as powerful as men. Seems to me women are losing something not gaining anything. The whole fiasco has got kids and young people confused about what gender identity even means!  
“You’re hearing the perspective of a guy raised in the Old World,” Gurd turned to hold Ethan’s gaze. “We see things differently than European descendants in the New World. I’m still trying to grasp the New World reasoning, the rationale of the people who are not culturally, ethnically American Indians, Ethan.  
“I don’t like theater seats or crowds,” Gurd sighing heavily glancing around as he rinsed a knife, squinting over at the collection. “Sam gave me that bunch trying to enculturate me, I guess. But of my limited exposure, I’d say To Kill a Mockingbird.”  
Ethan continued watching Gurd. The profile, the thick, dark hair, his posture, thinking of the actor Gregory Peck and the character he played in To Kill a Mocking Bird, Atticus Finch. There was some physical resemblance, but probity and honor were the characteristics evident in Gurd and Atticus… in Brónach.  
“What about favorite composer?” Ethan asked turning searching the scores of music CDs on the shelves. He glanced at the digital display to see what was playing wondering how he could not have recognized Vivaldi even if he wasn’t familiar with the composition.  
“Debussy,” Gurd replied slicing and buttering the French loaf, pausing to look at the saucepan on the range. “You have one?”  
“Mozart with Tchaikovsky a close second,” Ethan said turning to the books noticing Gurd flinch and wince.  
“Tchaikovsky was blithely composing in Moscow at the time the Russian government was ethnically cleansing the Caucasus of Circassians, my people,” Gurd murmured in response to Ethan’s quizzical expression. “I don’t like anything Russians produce. The literature is abhorrently, morbidly, disgustingly depressing. The whole of Russian culture, the mentality is inexcusable.”  
“I’ll bet Tchaikovsky understood and accepted his male gender and his homosexual orientation,” Ethan considering his words thoughtfully as he scanned the bookshelves, “before he grappled with his Russian ethnic or national identity. You’re right to hate the system, but not the people, Gurd. That’s what I do.”  
Ethan turned for his response, but Gurd said nothing. He stood nodding contemplating, leaning with both hands resting on the counter either side of the range staring into the saucepan. He lifted a hand to hold the hair off his forehead.  
Ethan was equally impressed by the hundreds of books on archaeology and anthropology on the shelves. He was intrigued by the number of the humorous novels by Douglas Adams, Tom Dorsey, Carl Hiaasen, and the comic, yet often profound fantasies of Terry Pratchett. Ethan was briefly bemused with the opinion of women in his family that he looked like the Pratchett character, Carrot.  
Ethan suddenly realized several personalities he encountered in the Netherworld were reminiscent of the Pratchett characters. A Carousel agent’s avatar in the Otherworld was a dead ringer for book cover illustrations of Granny Weatherwax. The only difference, Ethan mused, was Cactus Granny favored Coco Chanel little black dresses.  
“Hey!” Ethan shouted. “You’ve got the whole set of Calvin and Hobbes books. He was my favorite!”  
“Why does that not surprise me? Sam gave me those,” Gurd replied smiling glancing at Ethan as he tucked the salmon in the oven. “I never heard of Calvin until I came to the United States. Sam gave me all the Terry Pratchett books too. I’m not much into fantasy.”  
“You don’t like opera, ballet?” Ethan asked.  
“How’d we get to opera and ballet?” Gurd looking sideways quizzically forehead crinkling.  
“Narrative of the most famous operas and ballets are fantasies, fairy tales, and mythological stuff, satyrs, centaurs, wood nymphs, magical creatures,” Ethan explained clowning expressions in the range of ‘Exasperation’ and ‘Irritation’ skittering across his face. “Like Mozart’s The Magic Flute, Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, the fantastical creatures in Swan Lake, and The Firebird?”  
“You’re right. I guess I thought of them in terms of magical or supernatural rather than fantasy, fantastical,” Gurd replied with a slightly wry face removing the saucepan from burner to a trivet.  
“I appreciate ballet from a different perspective than most people. I was trained to be a Circassian sword dancer. In essence, it’s a sort of stylized, armed, martial-arts performance for an audience,” Gurd smiled plucking up three knives juggling. “Demonstrates all the offensive and defensive moves a guy has to learn with a sparring partner in knife fighting. You’d be surprised how similar it is to ballet. It has a magical, timeless feel when I’m dancing thinking my ancestors were doing the same thing over the ages.  
“I don’t visualize things I read which is probably critical for enjoying fantasy novels,” Gurd added feeling embarrassed glancing at Ethan while turning to carefully put the knives in the sink replacing seasonings in cupboards.  
“Images don’t do anything for me,” Gurd muttered. “I heavily left-brained.”  
“I’m right-brained. What’s this on the bottom shelf?” Ethan exclaimed with a chuckle dropping to squat butt on heels. “Truman Capote, Gore Vidal, Edmund White, Christopher Isherwood, Tennessee Williams and African American, James Baldwin novels?”  
“All gifts from Sam,” Gurd explained nodding shrugging sipping wine his free hand gesturing vaguely. “More attempts to enculturate me to American life through—how gay authors fictionalize their world, I suppose—or for both us to try to understand the New World. He spent as much of his life in the Old World as I did. Sam read them gave them to me. I read them. We talked about them.  
“I don’t have a religious affiliation, but I was around Muslims a lot,” holding Ethan’s gaze, Gurd continued eyebrows knitting lips twisting as though searching for the words to explain something obvious. “Sam was raised Vedic-Hindu. We don’t quite grasp the mindset of the American Christian gays? Passions? Desirable… qualities?”  
“So that would explain the volumes of gay Frenchman, Paul-Michel Foucault?” Ethan inquired pushing up from his crouch gripping the arm of a blue armchair pointing down at a book, The History of Sexuality.  
“Yep. I haven’t read it,” Gurd replied nodding padding to the khat plant plucking a few leaves inserting between cheek and gums. “Sam has and he likes to read passages to me for discussion. Conversations about desire. You read much philosophy, Ethan?”  
“Tried it, some Socrates-Plato stuff,” Ethan plopped into the armchair watching Gurd adjusting his khat with his tongue, returning to the counter. “I don’t have the patience for the plodding tempo in the writing style common to most philosophers who write. However, I did enjoy reading Greek-born Alexander Nehamas’ The Virtues of Authenticity which delved into the psyches of Plato and Socrates and virtue.”  
Noticing the pause in the music, Gurd glanced at Ethan. He stopped wiping the counter, arrested by the mix of powerful sexuality and tranquil erudition of Ethan sitting in the Parisian-blue chair with the background of tomes in the dark, carved-wood of the bookshelves. The sweetness of a Mozart concerto breaking his trance, Gurd looked past the cobalt blue sand trickling through the hourglass on the table by the chair trying to remember which American author Sam insisted treated the subject of sexual desire best in his works.  
“So what’s Foucault’s bottom line, Hurdy Gurdy?” Ethan asked launching from the chair striding across the room resting hands on the counter leaning forward as Gurd was glancing around assessing the progress of dinner.  
“To paraphrase Foucault in a nutshell,” Gurd murmured meeting Ethan’s intense stare, “ethics has to triumph over justice.”  
“Meaning if straight people had behaved ethically in the first place there would never have been laws introduced into the justice system that harmed gay people for their sexuality sending them to jail, forcing them to pay fines, making them feel guilty and ashamed?” Ethan asked eyebrows rising voice low mellow rational serious. “And that if we all start behaving ethically there would be no social and environmental injustices in the future?  
“I wish,” Ethan guffawed blinking tucking his chin lowering eyebrows turning his head to gaze at Parrish’s Grand Canyon.  
“Yes, Ethan, exactly,” Gurd padded around the counter embracing Ethan kissing him lightly on the lips eyes locking briefly before returning to the kitchen in response to a timer buzzing.  
“Do you read much fiction, Ethan?”  
“Nah!” Ethan replied momentarily disoriented by the magnitude of the moment the magic of the room and the man who lived here, face crinkling fingertips checking for blood on his lips. Head down eyes studying the pale-turquoise carpet. “The status of the Twentieth- and Twenty-first-century English-speaking literature is in a cycle similar to the one Cervantes criticized in Sixteenth-century Spain. The publishers just churn out standardized slop and the pigs eat it. Even the so-called fantasy genre, where you’d think a reader could find some originality, is standardized.  
“Formulaic fantasy?” Ethan huffed explosively eyes wide left eyebrow arching briefly expressing his exasperation. “How’s that for an oxymoron? A new genre is needed. Originality.”  
“American publishers wouldn’t touch it. They’ve spent centuries indoctrinating American readers to formulaic text and standardized content. Even a Twentieth-century Cervantes couldn’t change the tide,” Gurd replied gruffly, cocking his head to the right nodding thoughtfully as he gathered things from drawers and cabinets.  
“Green tea, bottled water, or wine?”  
“Water’s fine. Aren’t these gardenias and jasmine plants hard to keep alive,” Ethan asked skirting a cow-horn settling into the ladder-back chair onto the cushion printed with the image of Georgia O’Keefe’s Abstraction Blue.  
“Sam seems to know all their secrets,” Gurd said, setting dishes in the sink. “They thrive in the part of the world where he was raised. Where is home?” Gurd asked while sliding plates, cutlery, napkins, glasses, water, wine, covered bread basket, and sauce pitcher from counter to table.  
“North of the Bay Area, in the wilderness,” Ethan said grinning, eying the little pitcher. “That smells great!”  
“Is that where your business is?” Gurd asked bringing the steaming plater of salmon to the table placing it on a trivet leaning in to kiss Ethan. “Tell me about it.”  
#  
“Algorithms designed to help you implement tactics at strategic times and places to encourage environmentally unfriendly corporations to change their ways,” Gurd said, bemused, sipping chardonnay as Ethan finished his summary and last bite of cheesecake. He locked eyes with Ethan.  
“You’re a true child of Mother Nature,” Gurd admiration in his smiling eyes. “You have a lot of fun with your chosen role in life? You bought all those newspapers so you could check on how the press is reporting on the effects of Carousel’s secret mission against the culprits, The One Percent?”  
“Yep and yep,” Ethan responded happily returning the gaze. “Bad publicity is an essential tool in persuading the bad guys to do right. If they don’t respond by correcting their evil ways to a couple of shots across the bow from the press then we sink them with the big guns. I see that the real dirt gets in the hands of an ambitious political or business rival or competitor or initiate a more direct tactic.  
“I’m never involved in the actual firing of the big guns, releasing the reports, connecting with rivals, directing the other tactics,” Ethan said scraping plate with a fork for the last crumbs of cheesecake. “And the guys who do, don’t have a clue about the source of the decisions or orders. They’re environmentalists who jump at the opportunity to use what they’re given even without the financial compensation. I lease or rent places and buy computers that are destroyed afterward to give the directions, ship materials etcetera. All the kind of covert, black-operations stuff people see in the movies and on TV and some they don’t.”  
“Hazardous,” Gurd said the respect evident in his voice, the smile vanishing his steady gaze unwavering. “Risky. Mortally risky. Messing with The One Percent.”  
“Yep, affirmative,” Ethan replied nodding solemnly. “Risk assessment is a daily chore. On implementation days it’s hourly but the overall risk is declining gradually rather than increasing. I have a consultant reducing Carousel’s digital, internet identity. You lived a pretty risky life.”  
“Risk is subjective,” Gurd said as their gaze broke staring out the window at the twilight listening to the last in a string of Beethoven sonatas. “Maybe I should use algorithms to support my dissertation research.”  
“What’s the topic? Maybe your unique definition of culture could help me improve the efficacy of my algorithms’” Ethan asked lifting his gaze trying not to appear too eager.  
“I hope you and Sam discussed things other than me. I feel at a distinct disadvantage,” Gurd replied rising beginning to clear the table. “Let’s talk upstairs. You have worn me out today, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”  
Ethan paused briefly on the way to gather a few personal items, the ocarina from his pack, and the vase of flowers with the red roses. Shortly after sitting the vase on the bureau and propping himself on a couple of pillows in bed, Gurd dozed off in his arms.  
Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, Ethan slipped downstairs, retrieving his obsidian mirror in its leather pouch from his pack, grabbing several newspapers. Back upstairs he sat in a chair next to the bed reading for a short time.  
He contemplated the Georgia O’Keefe prints on the wall. One depicted the skull of a ram with spreading horns and a blue morning glory another of a Jimson weed blossom—both plants with hallucinogenic seeds. The third was The Lawrence Tree a huge ponderosa pine viewed at night from the ground looking up branches spreading into the stars. Ethan softly played Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and nocturnes by several composers, stars twinkling through the skylight over the bed.  
Watching Gurd sleeping peacefully, Ethan carefully placed his ocarina in its case. He quietly slipped to the floor. He placed the jade locket suspended from its cord around his neck, assumed a meditative pose, and entered the Netherworld.

Chapter Twenty-Two  
Hacker Witches and Evil Clown

The morning sunlight was filtering softly through the sheer curtains casting jasmine-shadows across the dining table as Ethan and Gurd were sharing a breakfast of mango juice, a pound of roasted pine nuts, and bagels with cream cheese and raw honey. The coffee table was stacked with Ethan’s newspapers and Gurd’s Sunday and Monday morning editions of the local paper. The room was wildly, refreshingly fragrant with the scent of stargazer lilies and roses.  
Gurd rose from the table padding to the sofa propping himself comfortably against the end one leg extending across the seat, and the other stretching out over the floor. Ethan took his laptop computer and five cell phones from his backpack, turning them all on placing them neatly beside the newspapers. With a satisfied sigh, he leaned to kiss Gurd before reclining against his chest.  
“Read to me?” Ethan suggested as Gurd opened and thumbed through the Albuquerque Sunday paper.  
“You can’t read without glasses can you?” asked Gurd grinning eyes pointedly dropping to Ethan’s things on the table. “The computer case, and all five cell phone holders each have a pocket for reading glasses, half-moon-glasses. Lose your spectacles much?”  
“What’s that about,” Ethan replied tapping the paper with his finger.  
“This is about some of the beliefs of Pueblo, Hopi, Zuni, and Navajo people,” Ethan said planting a kiss in the red hair, eyes roving over the article. “Witchcraft and stuff, comparing them to the religion of indigenous peoples down in northern Mexico. Trying to validate a connection or association sometime in the past.”  
Gurd read the article explaining passages not precisely correct because they were written to appeal to a non-academic audience. He sensed Ethan was engrossed like a child listening to a story at bedtime. As Gurd turned the page, Ethan raised a hand.  
“Wait,” Ethan said squirming under the paper, sitting up, twisting, and placing a hand on each of Gurd’s thighs. “Tell me about your computer set up.”  
“Well,” Gurd said lowering the paper, puzzled, “I have one laptop here dedicated exclusively to interaction with Dad’s operations, encrypted communications, not connected to other equipment or internet. I have one laptop and one desktop upstairs. All three in the office across the hall from the bedroom. Six laptops and four desktops at the office. Internet. What else?”  
“What about security?” Ethan asked, green eyes bright as a cat gazing at prey.  
“I have pretty standard, high-end stuff, firewall, anti-virus, protection against malware,” Gurd replied, face blank, returning Ethan’s gaze.   
“Would you get your Scarfagus laptop?” Ethan asked, somber, intense, patting Gurd’s thighs.  
“Sure,” Gurd responded, eyebrows jerking up briefly, folding the paper placing it on the coffee table.  
They both rose, and while Gurd retrieved his computer, Ethan sat on the floor between sofa and table checking the sources and times of his email and text messages. Satisfied his responses could wait he placed his phones aside just as Gurd was returning with his computer. Gurd set it on the coffee table and typed in his password.  
“Wireless internet?” Ethan asked, and when Gurd nodded he asked. “Mind if I use it to send an email?”  
“No I don’t mind,” Gurd replied turning to wash the breakfast dishes and brew coffee. “What’s up?”  
“I have been struggling,” Ethan replied, squinting thoughtfully as he clicked on the internet icon, “for the past year to understand some anomalies with the New Mexico Algorithm, NMA. There seems to be something outside the ordinary, something weird affecting NMA continuously, cumulatively. Whatever it is, seems to be causing results of the Carousel calculations and projections to be less accurate than each of the algorithms for the other states.  
“Wait,” Ethan said holding up a hand capturing Gurd’s gaze with his eyes, speaking succinctly. “I did not say that correctly… slight autism causing communication difficulties?”  
Ethan nodded with a questioning look, left eyebrow raised. Gurd nodded in understanding with a shrug.  
“Whatever it is, is not affecting our system or the algorithms directly,” Ethan said slowly brow crinkling in concentration staring at Gurd as though the eye contact was critical for him to maintain his clarity. “Our algorithms indicate there is a pattern signifying something is messing with the New Mexico system—I realize that’s a vague term, but it would take all day for me to be more explicit—directly. The influence of that something possibly is seeping into the surrounding states. We believe the NMA is telling us the medium, the avenue of the spread is academia. NMA is not purposefully telling us but the fact that the NMA inaccuracies are significantly different … statistically speaking… from coastal and other mountain states tells us something is meddling with the communications in New Mexico universities.”  
“Whew!” Ethan said breaking eye contact. “Wade makes me sit down and express myself correctly. Otherwise, the whole operation would be a mess. I can communicate just fine with computers, not so well with people.  
“Wade and I can talk code all day,” Ethan scowled, lips curling muttering just loud enough for Gurd to hear. “But he makes me express myself in English to Chester and Burl. Sometimes I have to write it down so he can edit it showing me the problems and solutions. He monitors all my calls to agents so he’s sure I don’t confuse them.  
“Back on subject,” Ethan glanced at Gurd. “Not long ago we hired Burl, an ex-CIA computer whiz in a consultant capacity to help us with an upgrade for the system,” he continued while opening the email, clicking Compose and punching keys. “In the course of evaluating and overhauling the system, Burl-the-whiz kind of got involved with the Carousel mission. He suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’s been investigating the mysterious anomalies as his time permits. He has other clients, but I think he’s becoming obsessed with the Carousel mission.  
“Trust me giving your password to Burl?” Ethan asked, lips pursed, pulling at an earlobe. Without hesitation, Gurd gave it to him while monitoring the coffee in the copper pot.  
“We’ve observed some patterns of evidence in our investigative operations into prospective targets. Results seem to indicate hacker-witches… Burl’s term… a cyber espionage network originating from some of TOP or their lackeys. Not surprising but the pattern of their hacking is curious. We think it affects the NMA, but we haven’t identified the source,” Ethan said, animated as he stopped tapping keys to review the message then quickly clicking the Send icon with a flourish, “or what exactly the role that particular pattern of hacking plays in maintaining their positions of power. If that sounded confusing ask me questions and maybe I can clarify what I said.  
“I just sent a request to Burl asking him to perform a penetration test on your system to determine if you’ve been hacked, got a bug on your computer. He’s a consultant, not an employee so he may not get back to us for a while. He’s always busy doing secret stuff,” Ethan concluded voice trailing off frustrated at his inability to effectively communicate his life’s work to Gurd.  
“Coffee?” Gurd asked lifting the copper cezve by its long handle pouring a cupful.  
“Thanks,” Ethan replied smiling wanly. “No, I have to avoid strong stimulants. I’ve got too much internal combustion firing away as it is.” Closing the file and email account, Ethan pushed the computer to the center of the table. Gathering the newspaper, he held it for Gurd approaching the sofa, sipping his coffee.  
“There are some things I don’t need to tell Burl to do especially if they’re illegal things,” Ethan said, quickly regaining momentum, cheerful, in response to the question in Gurd’s eyes. They positioned themselves just as they were before the break, Gurd setting his cup on the table.  
“Knowing what Burl does could be dangerous to one’s health and safety,” Ethan said snuggling against Gurd’s chest. “If Hacker-Witches have hacked your computer or planted a bug, Burl will conduct a little cyber counterintelligence, and document what he finds. He and Chester or Wade will analyze the results and let us know what’s happening,” Ethan’s bright, mischievous eyes looking up at Gurd.  
“Now, what’s this about?” Ethan asked turning, pointing at an article.  
“Okay. Well, just give me a wink to warn me away from questions that could be risky to my health and safety. This is about the conflicting accounts of a UFO sighting up around Chama last week,” Gurd said adjusting his manner of delivery playfully to make it sound like a documentary. Minutes later concluding, “Suspicions it might have been connected to animal mutilations on the range.”  
“Hey,” Ethan said pointing to the back page of the Monday edition laying on the coffee table, “there’s only one headline on that page and lots of pictures.”  
“Can you read the headline?” Gurd asked dropping the section he was holding stretching to retrieve the paper from the table.  
“Let me see,” Ethan said speculatively, eyes narrowing, face scrunching. “Hold it farther out… Bulls Gone Wild?”  
“Close,” Gurd smiled grimly scanning the article. “It’s about the discovery of a man’s body found in the early morning hours on the ranch owned by B. J. Lagash, Astarte’s father. A little strange considering two dead men recently discovered to be employed by Lagash for security, also were found on the property a few days ago. Their deaths were ruled by the coroner to be from shock.  
“The Lagashs raise stock for rodeos. I’m guessing you already know that,” Gurd said shaking crimps from the paper, clearing his throat. “Looks like some bulls were acting odd in the middle of the night… the body discovered in the early morning hours after the ranch staff called the cops and Animal Control. Speculations about UFOs and alien involvement.”  
“Good heavens!” Ethan exclaimed stock affectations ‘Shock’ and ‘Horror’ flickering across his face turning to look up at Gurd.  
“Witchcraft, UFOs, animal mutilation, berserk bulls, men dying from shock. This is one strange state. I spent some time around here taking classes at UNM, and even then I suspected this place was ripe for the Evil Clown,” Ethan muttering lowering his voice ending with a theatrical whisper.  
“Evil Clown?” Gurd asked reaching for his coffee.  
“Yeah,” Ethan explained shivering jokingly. “He’s like the opposite of good clowns, or more like he’s an evil spirit possessing good clowns. He wears blackface and has red fangs, carries a pitchfork. Does evil things causing pain and suffering. Never speaks just cackles wickedly.  
“Read it,” he said, ‘Anxiety’ gripping his features as Gurd lowered his cup to the table.  
Reading aloud with guarded interest, Gurd finished stating the man’s identity would not be revealed until the family was notified. He folded the paper retrieving his coffee.  
“So they think the bulls went berserk after the man was killed. Hmm, okay, that sets the stage for algorithms and dissertations,” Ethan murmured stretching twisting to plant his face in Gurd’s chest hugging him tightly.  
“You smell good,” Ethan murmured kissing Gurd’s smooth belly. “Delicious, subtle, delicate but distinct like Amaretto. Amaretto gelato! You’ve got a little ice cream maker right there by the microwave, let’s make some!”  
“Thanks. And you smell delicious, like aniseed cookies, my favorite Lebanese dessert. We’ll need to get a bottle of Amaretto,” Gurd said taking a final sip of coffee.  
“Okay, let’s adjourn to a more academic setting,” Ethan suggested enthusiastically as they stood folding into a long, silent embrace.  
“Give me a minute to gather my thoughts,” Gurd whispered planting his lips on the side of Ethan’s bare neck. He shivered slightly to the light touch of Ethan’s hands roaming over his back.  
  
Chapter Twenty-Three  
Cycles and Values

“Okay,” Gurd pulled away briefly kissing Ethan on the lips walking to the bookshelves pressing a button on the sound system. A Scottish folk dance erupted from the speakers.  
“You like Scottish classical?” Ethan asked twirling and bouncing.  
“Yeah,” Gurd nodded adjusting the sound. “Developed a taste for it while in the Highlands at my aunt Nash’s home. This is a collection by Hamish Mac Cunn, after this are several short pieces of John Mc Ewen’s and ends with some Alexander Mackenzie. You know Scottish music?”  
“Like the inside of my nose,” Ethan stopped his twirl to insert an index finger into a nostril digging in as Gurd stifled a chuckle with a grimace.  
“My model needs a three-dimensional demonstration,” Gurd said padding into the kitchen shaking his head at Ethan’s antics.  
Ethan walked to the opposite side of the counter leaning to rest his hands, palms spread on the white marble. Listening to the music gently filling the room, eager, excited he watched Gurd gathering items.  
“Is Gurd short for some unpronounceable Circassian name,” he asked even though he knew from his file it was short for Gurdjieff. He was curious why the Khases chose the name.  
“It’s short for Gurdjieff,” Gurd responded removing a bag of dried, shredded, marijuana leaves and a small brick of hashish wrapped in foil from a drawer.  
“As in George Ivanovich Gurdjieff, the famous mystic?” asked Ethan eyebrows rising.  
“He was a friend of my grandfather’s. He was my father’s godfather,” Gurd replied nodding shaving a strip off the brick with a paring knife. He placed the shaving on a cigarette paper, sprinkling some marijuana, rolling a joint.  
“Wow! And Holy Cow!” Ethan was sincerely impressed brows rising. “The original Hurdy Gurdy Man!”  
“I’d be surprised if Donovan had him in mind,” Gurd frowning, turning to pull a big road atlas from the top of the refrigerator. He opened a lower cabinet door, removing from the wastebasket the discarded cardboard core of a paper towel roll while Ethan sang more of “Hurdy Gurdy Man”:  
“Histories of ages past unenlightened shadows cast, down through all eternity the crying of humanity.”  
“You’re leaving out the chorus between the verses: Twas then that the Hurdy Gurdy Man came singing songs of love. Not in keeping with the character of the man my father and grandfather knew,” Gurd said taking a pad of Post-its with a rainbow of colored sheets, and a black felt-tip pen from a drawer.  
Ethan watched Gurd draw a line spiraling from one end of the tube to the other. Gurd opened the road atlas flipping through pages until he found the New Mexico state map. Lighting the joint with a lighter, he took a puff holding his breath squinting against the curling smoke.  
“This is Time,” Gurd said pointing to the black line on the cardboard tube, “and this is Space,” indicating the map, exhaling.  
“One of the big challenges,” he said holding Ethan’s gaze lifting his right arm extending his index finger, “that has concerned archaeologists and anthropologists is explaining why some cultures develop linearly. An unbroken progression leading from simple, mobile hunter-gather life to sedentary agriculturalists to larger, socially stratified, organized populations. Like the Indian pueblos, or Greek city-states and then on to develop into independent nations with formal boundaries.  
“Why other cultures like the Bushmen of Africa do not evolve but remain hunter-gathers today as they have been for thousands of years,” Gurd said taking a puff. “And why some other cultures skip a step on the linear progression I just described, and why others regress to a lower position from a higher one.  
“I don’t like to use the term evolve when talking about culture,” Gurd said frowning taking another puff, “because it carries the implication of progressing in a linear, or upward branching manner to some higher state from a lower state. It’s a concept suited to biology and organisms, not anthropology and culture. Anthropologists are finally beginning to understand models based on Aristotelian linearity will not work on cultural phenomena.  
“The central argument of my dissertation is archaeologists and anthropologists are following the wrong course in trying to make cultural development analogous with biological evolution of organisms, or species,” Gurd paused to take another puff placing the joint on the edge of the stainless-steel sink.  
“Over time cultures experience a mixture of progressive and regressive developmental episodes. Some of them die or become extinct as a result of a single, severe regressive event, and others recover from similar events,” Gurd said settling his hands on the counter, exhaling, his eyes steadily gazing into Ethan’s.  
“All events, actions, occurrences negatively influence a culture causing deterioration in the culture, or a positive… desirable way causing improvements,” Gurd said turning his attention to his visual aids taking the spool into his right hand, raising his left hand all four fingers extended, wiggling, “All events, actions fall within four categories of impacts, or effects.  
“Number one,” Gurd said dipping a finger, “cyclic forces within, or internal to the culture. Number two, internal non-cyclic forces. Three, cyclic influences outside, or external to the culture. Four, external non-cyclic forces,” a final dip of the fourth finger. “I repeat… All human, cultural actions, reactions, interactions fall within one of those four categories. I call them the four meme-spheres or meme universes… working on memetic theory initiated by Richard Dawkins beginning back in 1976.”  
“I’ve spent some time studying cyclic phenomena,” Ethan interjected with a big grin. “Go on. No need to build suspense.”  
“Internal cyclic stuff,” Gurd said leaning over to bop Ethan on the head with the tube, curling down three fingers leaving only the index finger extended briefly waging for emphasis. Lowering his hands, Gurd placed the spool upright on the map, taking a red Post-it from the pad to write the letters IC, “are events occurring within society on a predictable, regular basis like the life cycle of an individual… birth, puberty, maturity—marriage, child-rearing—and old-age, or end of productivity. Those events are usually marked with a ceremony in modern and traditional cultures, ritually regulated.  
“Number two, internal non-cyclic forces, or events,” Gurd continued with mounting enthusiasm removing a green Post-it penning INC on it, “are things occurring randomly like conflicts, disagreements between opposing forces—men and women of the group, or between the young and old, or between clans. Resolutions to these types of conflicts are often noted with celebrations or ceremonies and often result in new mores and written laws for guidance in future behavior.  
“Number three, external cyclic forces,” Gurd said removing a blue Post-it penning the letters EC, “are things like the changes in the ocean tides and other seasonal changes in nature. And the fourth, external non-cyclic forces,” pausing to select a yellow Post-it labeling it ENC, “are mainly oppositional processes originating in nature, or other cultures or societies outside the culture. Things like war, stock-market crashes, tornadoes, hurricanes, and drought. Transitions, culminations, or resolutions of such events are marked with memorials or other rituals. The rituals are eventually written into laws regulating international relations or stock market trading or procedures for dealing with the aftermath of natural catastrophes.  
“That’s all pretty simple, straightforward?” Gurd asked, eyes direct.  
“Agreed,” Ethan said solemnly, absorbed nodding.  
“So here you have the dimension of time,” Gurd said twirling the paper towel core with his right hand, “and here you have the dimension of space,” he said holding his left palm spread over the map. “So I’m going to add three qualifying factors… frequency, intensity, and duration of the four different types of impacts.”  
From the drawer, he pulled a pad of Post-its twice the size of the small pad, and a second one of intermediate size. He plucked several sheets from them labeling the red, green, blue, and yellow squares with the letters corresponding to the same colors on the small squares, IC, INC, EC, and ENC. He plucked up the joint to place between his lips keeping it there while resuming his explanation puffing smoke to curl around his face and hair.  
“The large ones indicate the same types of forces or pressures the small ones do,” he said, excited Ethan appeared to be genuinely interested, eyes bright, lips pressed together, engaged. “The big Post-its represent a greater intensity of, let’s say warfare maybe three conflicting tribes rather than just between two tribes. As in tribe A attacking tribe B who attacks tribe C who attacks tribe A.  
“A bunch of small ones can indicate a greater frequency of certain events, a bunch of small ones lined up close together represents a prolonged duration of different impacting events in close sequence in time. You get the idea of the number and variety of patterns that can be generated is big,” Gurd said squinting blinking away the smoke tossing his head flicking hair from his forehead.  
Ethan nodded staring at him intently, subconsciously registering an Mc Ewen tune, tapping his finger on the counter. Gurd stuck a random number of Post-its of all colors and sizes around the cardboard tube on the spiraling black line. He placed it in a vertical position in the area of the New Mexico map central to the location of the pueblos. He inhaled.  
“Say this tube represents the entire past, figuratively, of the American Indians of central New Mexico experienced,” he said, exhaling, lips tight holding the joint while sticking several more Post-its to the tube to change the pattern of impacts, turning the page to the map of Illinois. “And this is what the people who lived across the Mississippi River from present-day Saint Louis experienced, the big prehistoric settlement known as Cahokia, large population and highly stratified society. And,” he inhaled and continued as he randomly stripped off several Post-its from the tube, turning the pages to Washington State, placing the tube over the coastal area, exhaled, “this is what happened among the American Indians in the Pacific Northwest.  
“The impact on a culture of these four different types of influences occurred in different patterns of intensity, frequency, and duration… all four simultaneously, or in rapid succession, or sequentially interspersed with intervals of relative equilibrium, or stasis,” Gurd explained staring into Ethan’s eyes. “The pattern of the four types of impacts in the past defines the state of the culture at any given time.  
“As an example,” Gurd continued, the joint in the corner of his mouth now smokeless, “let’s say the tube as it stands represents the past pattern of impacts in Northwest culture when Lewis and Clark got there in the early 1600s and this,” Gurd paused to strip the Post-its from the top quarter of the tube is what the pattern of their previous impacts looked like in the year 1000. That’s it in a nutshell.  
“That’s the hypothesis, my definition of culture, the easy part,” Gurd said turning to spit the joint remnant into the sink. “The long, hard part is for me to prove the hypothesis. That’s where all the work, the research comes in, examining archaeological records.”  
Realizing he wasn’t breathing, Ethan inhaled. He nodded his encouragement for Gurd to continue.  
“To state it in the simplest terms, culture is the process of adaptation by people to these four types of impacts. All our institutions or memeplexes, private and public created in the past, or developing now in the present, are adaptive responses to the effects of these four impacts or designed to prepare for the effects of these impacts in the future,” Gurd explained.  
“The process, which consists of the choices and decisions based principally on a subjective value system. Not exclusively on the availability of resources like water and sunshine… objective values… includes adopting modifications to technologies for addressing the effects of these impacts as well as discarding adaptations no longer useful, no longer valuable.”  
“And all values and risks are relative, change with time,” Ethan muttered with disgust modifying his tone to express his appreciation for Gurd’s hypothesis. “In all my studies of cycles, I was never able to achieve the level of Newtonian reductionism you’ve accomplished on the subject. Amazing!”  
“So I’ve started searching for supporting archaeological evidence… in cultures around the world at different places and in various periods of their development… of these patterns revealed in the types of institutions, memeplexes involved in that process. I’ll need to research thousands of archaeological reports, books, and periodicals. Some reports I can find on the Internet. Others through my connections in The Old World, interlibrary loans through the university, etcetera,” Gurd said exhaling forcefully to get the last dregs of smoke from his lungs.  
“Some of the prime evidence for internal, cyclic and non-cyclic impacts, those between people within a culture, in historical times is documented in institutions like the justice system with the written laws beginning as far back as Mesopotamia,” Gurd said, adding, “But, that doesn’t help for the prehistoric period when there was no writing. For prehistory, I’ll need analysis of ritual and ceremonial evidence.  
“What?” he asked when Ethan covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. Gurd dropped the tube leaning forward resting his knuckles on the counter.  
“Okay! He’s defined culture! Now you’ve gotta define algorithm!” Wee Clown muttered from below the counter. Ethan bowed his head and said, “I’m not a mathematician, not an Alan Turing, or an Al-khwarizmi. Even if I was, I could never express myself adequately in English. Maybe in Scot-Gaelic.”  
Concern stealing into his face, Gurd watched as Ethan continued the slow forward and downward movement lowering his forehead and chest to rest on the counter. He stretched his arms and hands out to grasp Gurd’s wrists working a finger under the horsehair bracelet.  
“You’re giving me a new angle, Hurdy Gurdy. I may need to revise, adjust my algorithms,” Ethan murmured in exasperation turning his head to rest on a cheek. “I have been so wrong… or have I?” thoughtful, contemplative tone, features still, meditative.   
“I believe the events I’ve defined as regular, normal natural and cultural cycles, and my chaotic, or random, entropic natural and cultural disasters are equivalent to your four types of impacts,” Ethan sighed heavily pausing contemplating. “But your orientation is different from mine. I’ll need to think more about it. The changes may be subtle nuances, which is a big pain in the butt, but the results could be profoundly more precise, accurate.  
“But this is fantastic!” Ethan exclaimed releasing the bracelet jerking upright with sudden intense enthusiasm, eyes bright.  
“For your dissertation, we could devise a memetic algorithm incorporating all the elements you’ve described to investigate your thesis!” eyes dancing, doldrums evaporating enthusiasm bubbling. “It’s possible an algorithm could predict or identify where and what period in either prehistoric or historical eras to look at the cultures that would have the most potential for the supporting evidence you need.  
“See?” Ethan slapped his hands together in a single clap, spreading his arms wide, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, searching probing Gurd’s eyes. “Just like I pump my algorithms full of primarily environmental data and ask them to tell me where the imbalances or anomalies are originating or occurring in the soil, air, and water, and pointing to whoever the likely perpetrator is—we can design an algorithm packing it mostly past cultural data and ask it to tell who where and when anything significant or atypical was occurring! Something atypical would indicate a shift in a cultural pattern—a response to significant impacts! Right?  
“The initial data gathering and feed could give a lot of students part-time work for a year,” Ethan said thoughtfully eyeing Gurd. “It would be expensive.  
“An algorithm might focus your efforts reducing the amount of your time doing research,” Ethan was excited, energized at the prospect, cords in his neck prominent. “Could be while we’re doing that I might discover some insights into redesigning my algorithms!  
“The appendices might require a ream of paper….”  
“What’s that?” Ethan asked abruptly cocking an ear toward the music spilling softly from the speakers. A nocturne, unquestionably the same haunting piece of music Ethan once heard pouring from the cavern in the Netherworld as Psycho Pomp and Brónach were seated near the entrance. Only now it didn’t sound like it was far away in a vast space.  
“From Trois Morceaux, Three Pieces by Alexander Mackenzie, Number Two, the “Nocturne”,” Gurd replied, high, calm yet slightly uneasy at the intensity of the searching stare Ethan turned on him.  
“I’ve only heard it once before and always wondered what it was,” Ethan said quietly. “Timeless. Bòidheach mar thusa.”

Chapter Twenty-Four  
Gay Pride and A Mystery

“I need to visit a bar for a little while,” Gurd said later under a clear, hot, sunny sky as they returned from a walk in the nearby park after lunch.  
“Some guys on my crew go down there to take advantage of the free beer and pizza on Monday evenings,” Gurd said responding to the Ethan’s lowered eyebrows, pursed lips wiping his face with a dark blue bandanna twisting into a circlet tying it around his head.  
“They’re retirees, volunteers excavating part of an archaeological site on my mother’s property. The biggest part of the site being excavated is between her land and Highway 25, location for the Lagash church. That part of the dig is conducted by a different company,” Gurd said after spitting khat into the spittoon outside, closing the door pitching the keys onto the kitchen counter.  
“Well, I should say I pay them on the condition they say they’re unpaid volunteers,” he continued, draping his right arm across Ethan’s shoulders for balance removing his sandals.  
“Monday evening I usually get the rundown from them on what’s happening on the dig,” Gurd said dropping his sandals in the closet. “I’m the principal investigator for the entire project both parts of the excavation. Meaning I’m ultimately responsible for the final product for both excavations, the quality of the fieldwork, curation of the artifacts, and the reports. I don’t have to be there in person as long as there’s a qualified field director in charge and present all the time on both digs. I’m what you might call a subcontracted boss for the excavation that’s not on mother’s property, an unpaid boss.”  
“You pay them personally, not through Scarfagus?” Ethan asked encircling Gurd’s neck with his left arm.  
“It’s easier that way through my small business account,” Gurd replied submitting to Ethan’s rough grip, awkward kisses. “Law requires an archaeological investigation on the part of the site on the Lagash lease before he gets the permit to build, but not on Mother’s private property. I’m just doing that part out of curiosity to get the full picture of the entire site and keep the old guys busy.  
“I pick up the tab for the pizza and beer, as long as the owner of the bar doesn’t tell anyone,” Gurd said grabbing Ethan’s arm struggling a little, hair bobbing. “The old Vietnamese couple, the Phans, who own the bar own the pizza place next door. Not many people show up on Mondays. Old-guys’ hangout shunned by the young crowd. Has a great, classic jukebox.”  
“You’re a sweet guy,” Ethan murmured leaning forward to press his body fully against Gurd. They tumbled to the floor Ethan on top chest-to-chest stifling laughs.  
“Is it a roomy place?” Ethan asked slipping his hand down to grip Gurd’s butt.  
“No,” Gurd said grunting, chuckling wrapping his leg over Ethan’s waist pressing his crotch firmly against him erection growing. “It’s a dark, smoky, gay dive, but it has a sunny beer garden. It’s one of those places retirees go to gossip, make deals, place bets and brag.  
“You’ll like the old guys,” he grunted as Ethan pressed against him dripping sweat twisting to nibble his ear. “Only four of them are gay. A couple of them are retired archaeologists. There’s a retired, black State cop, a Navajo ex-FBI agent, a few ex-Air Force guys. A couple of former construction workers who get a kick out of fancy digging as they call it. Two Mexican ex-banditos and a black guy descended from a Buffalo Soldier. The field director on our part of the site is a Tewa elder, Chief. A real cross-section of New Mexico.  
“Oh, and I need to pick up one of my dogs, Flora,” Gurd said reaching to swipe the hair from his forehead. “My office manager took her home with him. Says she didn’t look well, but I think he just likes her company. I should probably give him a pup from the two litters out at Mom’s to keep him company. He’s single.”  
“Well,” Ethan said relaxing his grip as Gurd rolled, twisting on top reaching for the joint he left on the kitchen counter, “you’ve persuaded me, but fasten your seatbelt. I’m bipolar. That sort of environment may trigger an episode.”  
“You don’t have medication?” Gurd said frowning with concern lighting the joint tumescence dwindling.  
“Hurdy Gurdy,” Ethan sighed, earnest, “I won’t take it. It kills glee,” miming ‘Glee’, and ‘Joy’. “Those are the things that make life worth living. Give me time for some yoga then I’ll be ready.”  
“Ethan, I have friends who know a lot about aboriginal healing methods and medicines,” Gurd said rising to stand over Ethan, blowing smoke. “I’ll email them to see if they have some useful info about treatments that don’t suppress mood.  
“Maybe you should try some of this,” voice hesitant, eyebrows slightly raised, Gurd extended his arm down offering Ethan the joint.  
#  
Gurd knew the place was packed. The parking lot was filled, forcing him to park two blocks up the street. They watched a white balloon wreathed with cigarette smoke floating from the beer garden up into the cerulean sky as they strolled the sidewalk in their cargo shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. Gurd was wearing a straw cowboy hat, swinging the bag of papayas and mangoes, the bandanna still encircling Ethan’s head. The jukebox was blaring “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)” by Whitney as they walked into the dim room filled with lively chatter, the clattering of cans and bottles.  
“The last weekend of Gay Pride Month!” Gurd shouted to Ethan in the suddenly expanding, yet brief silence rippling into the room all heads turning to watch them.  
Continuous hoots, whistles, and cheers rising as Gurd and Ethan worked their way to the counter. Scores of bright balloons emblazoned with images and slogans common to marriage celebrations bobbed in the currents of the ceiling fans. Placing his left hand on the back of Ethan’s neck, Gurd watched his wandering gaze taking in the crowded room.  
The grinning, chatting patrons were mainly young guys in cowboy hats and boots. Several appeared rugged, calloused and tanned from work on the range.  
A well-stocked bar and cluttered counter to the right lined with patrons sitting on stools extended along the wall. On the left guys were dancing on a small stage. Men seated at an assortment of miscellaneous, old tables barely had room for their beer and pizza beside the brilliant bouquets brimming with bursting red roses, orange lilies, and yellow sunflowers. At the back, stood one pool table, the jukebox, doors to restrooms, and door to the beer garden.  
The cement floor was stained with the stripes of the rainbow, embedded with glitter, polished to a high shine. The walls were decorated with photos of the winners of State and national female impersonator contests, muscle men, cowboys on bucking bulls or broncs. A large photograph of the founder and CEO of the National AIDS Foundation, Elizabeth Taylor, who died in March, was displayed in a place of honor in the center of the mirror behind the bar.  
“Well, Gurd, I hear the reception was a disgustingly lusty affair,” an elderly Tewa leaning against the bar shouted over the noise. His grin splitting his wrinkled face the color of cinnamon, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, turquoise and silver rings on his fingers.  
“What are they saying, Chief?” Gurd barked as he and Ethan turned to join him.  
“They’re saying you two were rolling around in your mother’s backyard wearing nothing but some cake and icing while a hundred spectators watched, cheered and took pictures,” grin spreading head shaking. “Behaving like an American white man.”  
“Congratulations,” shouted an older, muscular, bald man with a bushy, gray mustache.  
“Jack,” Gurd yelled leaning to the man sitting on a barstool next to Chief, “this is crazy. This is big even for Gay Pride.”  
“Well,” Jack replied grinning as Ethan and Gurd moved closer between the two men, “they came to see this big, hairy, handsome fellow. Most of them know bullfighter Do-Do Dewar by sight. You’d be surprised how many pictures and videos of you two were snapped and filmed yesterday, and how many of them were sent around the internet.”  
“You’ll have your regular pizza, Boss?” asked a big African American man sitting a bottle of water on the counter. “Sleep well?”  
“Jim, what’re you doing behind the bar?” Gurd asked as Whitney Houston gave way to “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper, a sudden burst of laughter from a group of patrons at the pool table. Lowering his eyes for a moment in thought, Gurd added, “Yeah, slept fine. Would you ask Mr. Phan to put out some cans of mixed nuts I asked him to order for me? Thanks. These,” Gurd said placing the bag of fruit on the counter next to a bowl of limes and lemons, “are for the Phans when you get the chance.”  
“You bet. The rumor got out you were likely to show up here as usual, but maybe with your spouse in tow, this time and all the young, range guys started pouring in. Mister Phan couldn’t take care of it by himself,” Jim responded gesturing to his right. “Eli and Benito are back here too. Mister Phan is on the register, and the three of us are running beer and shots. Hi, handsome,” he added extending his tattooed hand to Ethan.  
“Make mine black olives, shrimp, and anchovies,” Ethan said grinning taking the offered hand. “Water for me too, please.”  
“I’ll have some of his pizza,” Gurd said smiling holding up two fingers. “Better make two large.”  
“We have a marriage made in heaven,” Jim said rolling his eyes walking away.  
“How are things down at the site?” Gurd asked Chief and Jack.  
#  
Finishing their pizza and winding up his conversation about the excavation with Chief and Jack, Gurd sensed Ethan’s restlessness in the packed room. As he stood gesturing toward the beer garden, he was momentarily caught off guard when Ethan picked up two mangoes and two papayas started juggling and pitching them at him. Gurd quickly fell into the pass-juggling rhythm stepping a few paces back. The crowd cheered as Ethan deftly introduced a lemon and a lime, but when he added the paring knife Gurd dodged eyes glaring. He covered his reaction by retrieving the fruit and knife from the floor placing them on the counter.  
Guiding Ethan out into the less crowded beer garden in the stifling, blinding heat, Gurd was startled by a flying, straw cowboy hat. Yells erupted to his right. “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie Hawkins suddenly blaring on the jukebox.  
“Grab red-shirt!” Gurd shouted at Ethan as he dove into the fistfight.  
Gurd held his head back and away from swinging arms, seizing a hatless young man in jeans, yellow shirt, and boots by the throat with his right hand. Ethan clenching red-shirt by the back of the neck pulling him out of fist range. Ethan jerked a bandanna from his back pocket clapping over it the guy’s bleeding nose. The crowd awed into silence a few tentative chuckles. The two combatants still grunting struggling arms flailing, boots scraping not quite grasping the situation.  
“Calm down!” Gurd gritting his teeth pulling yellow-shirt face-to-face glaring grabbing the guy’s swinging arm with his left hand.  
“Blow your nose gently,” Ethan addressed red-shirt a six-foot-tall, wiry fellow suddenly docile. He grimaced under the pressure of Ethan’s hand, glaring at his opponent, face pale, sweat dripping.  
“Ice,” Gurd commanded keeping his eyes on yellow-shirt whipping a bandanna from a pocket holding it out. A patron immediately poured an iced-drink onto it.  
Gurd clapped the icy bandanna on the left ear of shorter, stouter yellow-shirt gasping raising his hands to grip the hand around his throat. His face was crimson, eyes wide, short, blond hair matted with perspiration.  
“What’re you fellas doing off the range this time of day?” Gurd asked sternly glancing from one to the other.  
Yellow-shirt sheepishly put his hand on the bandanna over his swelling ear. Gurd removed his left hand easing the right-hand grip.  
“You gotta kiss and make up if you want my autograph,” Ethan said as red-shirt gripped the bandanna over his face grinning, ears red, embarrassed. He blew his nose taking a step forward as Ethan eased his hand down the red shirt pushing the young man.  
“It ain’t that easy!” yellow-shirt protesting, blue eyes wide, pleading, coughing as Gurd dropped his right hand.  
“This a lover’s quarrel?” Ethan inquired raising eyebrows canting head gazing from one to the other.  
“They wish!” shouted from the crowd.  
“Well, in that case, I’d say the ice has been broken western-style,” Ethan gentle but firm digging into his right front pocket pulling out a pen.  
The two young men kissed to cheers. Ethan found two dry paper napkins signed and drew a heart on each.  
#  
The crowd settling, murmuring, and chuckling around them, Gurd introduced Ethan to Eduardo Sanchez, the former New Mexico State policeman, and Eric Chee, the ex-FBI field agent. Sitting at a table next to the wooden privacy fence, their conversation quickly turned from archaeology to the incident on the Lagash property. The jukebox blasting “Believe” by Cher.  
“Who in hell would kill a man in a field full of bulls in the middle of the night?” asked Eduardo, a tall, lanky, bearded African American in his early sixties with salt-and-pepper hair, sporting a straw hat, plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He paused to adjust the angle of the big umbrella shading the table.  
“Nothing but space aliens I’m telling you, beings from another dimension,” Eduardo proclaimed glaring then squinting brows lowering into a knot as though the fact was self-evident.  
Eduardo nodded confidently when none of them responded. His squint lingering on Eric to warn him against any comment about his reflexive move when a balloon popped gun-like.  
They gazed at Eduardo with the respect due to an aging, retired law enforcement officer. “Sweet Transvestite” by Tim Curry thumping from the jukebox. The crowd inside sang along. His hand on the back of Ethan’s neck, Gurd felt him humming the tune.  
“Ah, Lord,” said Eric, a robust, beardless Tewa about the same age and height, and similarly dressed, “you’re getting crazier every day Eduardo! You don’t know any of the facts.”  
“I don’t because you won’t tell me anything,” Eduardo replied resentment evident in the tone of his voice. “But I can tell you one thing. Somebody’s out to get Lagash. Two of his security men dead out there from shock just days ago and now a third. That’s like sayin’ ‘Looky here! What’s goin’ on out here?’”  
“More likely, it’s witchcraft,” Eric said performing his version of glare-and-squint. “Everybody’s heard the rumor about a headless skeleton discovered when Lagash excavated that survivalist-bunker under his shooting range. When a headless body was buried in these parts in prehistoric times… means it was a dead witch! A murdered witch!  
“I’ll tell you the name of the most recent victim if you promise not to blabber it all over,” Eric continued when his audience remained silent. Lowering his head and voice, “He’s a man the Law has had its eyes on for years, Emmanuel E. Elizardo. A guy everyone knows is Lagash’s man since their days in Afghanistan.”  
Gurd felt Ethan’s humming cease. He slid his eyes briefly from Eric to watch Ethan pull a red bandanna from his pocket wiping the sweat from his brow. He kept the bandanna in his fist under his chin elbow resting on the table. Gurd’s eyes drifted to Eduardo.  
“Well, now,” Eduardo said thoughtfully, cocking an eyebrow, raising his head toward the door where the inside crowd and jukebox momentarily went quiet as though the breath was knocked out of the room, “when he was young that poor boy was seen way too often all battered and beat. Rumor had it his little butt-hole was bruised too, and the Puerto Rican daddy was the one makin’ it that way. You wouldn’t want us to let a thing like that go just so you could disrupt some human traffickin’ between Mexico and New Jersey?”  
“Yeah, we knew it was you guys worrying the Puerto Rican about something causing him to run off back to New Jersey. How’d you know about the trafficking?” Eric asked, taking a sip of beer, leaning back against the wooden fence tipping back his hat. He glanced at the door to the bar, the first strains of “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera floating on the air. “I don’t remember tellin’ you ‘bout that.”  
“There’s been more’n one FBI caressed by these sweet lips,” Eduardo replied also leaning back, raising his chin then jerking reflexively as another balloon popped.  
“Why don’t you just wear a gun, Ed? Shoot yourself some balloons,” Eric laughed cinnamon face crinkling.  
“Old man Lagash may well be involved in trafficking, too,” Eduardo whispered leaning forward thumping the table with a finger. “Hell only knows what goes on out there on that ranch. Everybody thinks the Lagash’s was sent straight from heaven with all his preaching and the reputation of their foundation for giving to charities, and donations to the homeless and whatnot. Hobnobbing with senators and mayors, and congressmen on television. My sources say they ain’t so sweet as people think. Lagash has done pranced onto somebody’s toes and that somebody’s out to get him I tell you.”  
“Mister Hat just arrived,” Eric announced glancing sideways as a beer bottle crashed on the concrete floor scattering sparkling glass across the shining rainbow, “and the person with him has surely come to see you two.”  
Gurd turned with Ethan spotting Sam dressed in black jeans, white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cordovan cowboy boots. He was holding a large, silver tray stacked with cookies, brownies, and fudge partially covered with a big, white napkin.  
Standing next to Sam was a tall Navajo woman wearing a dusky-rose, sleeveless shirtdress extending to mid-calf, silver and turquoise belt, bracelets, and rings, leather sandals. Her graying hair was gathered in a fishtail braid beneath a pale mantilla also draping her neck encircling her throat.  
Scrutinizing her more closely, Gurd felt Ethan’s breathing stop and his body tense. He kept his eyes on the lady resisting his impulse to study Ethan’s uncharacteristic complete absence of movement.  
The woman’s large, silver loop-earrings enclosed a fine spider-web of glittering silver threads, her nails brilliant teal flashing in the sunlight. Her makeup at a tasteful minimum on a perfect complexion. Gurd quickly decided few people would think her beautiful, but her charm, grace, and elegance were captivating her audience. Not beautiful physically but a lovely person.  
The woman also held a laden tray, bar patrons gathering around her and Sam to chat and munch. Together, they were striking, maybe even stunning Gurd thought, watching them grin for photos under the bright sun.  
“We better go get another beer,” Eric said looking up at the couple approaching the table.  
“What?” hissed Eduardo draining the last drops from his bottle, face blank, incredulous, “and miss this?”  
“Have you met Dama Hatathli?” Eric asked Gurd. The Tewa stood with a for-your-eyes-only glare at Eduardo, discreetly grabbing him by the belt firmly pulling him to his feet.  
“The Santa Fe drag queen?” asked Gurd eyebrows rising. “Eric, would you ask Mr. Phan to open two cases of Bon Terra I asked him to order for me, a Cabernet and a Chardonnay?”  
“Female impersonator,” Eric corrected pursing his lips knitting eyebrows, lowering his head, “and psychic. I may be just another superstitious Indian, but watch your tongue, Boss, seriously. Come on Eduardo, let’s have a glass of wine.”  
“Dama,” Eduardo nodded tipping his hat in passing.  
“Dama,” Eric murmured removing his hat, nodding as Gurd and Ethan rose to their feet Gurd tipping his hat.  
“Dama Billie Hatathli,” Sam Hat said, smiling placing the empty tray on the next table, raising his hand to indicate his friend, “Gurd Khase.”  
“Ethan Dewar,” Sam nodding and gesturing toward Ethan.  
“I am a big admirer of your performances Mr. Dewar,” Billie said with her soft, mellow voice as Ethan grabbed the last of the treats. Sam took her tray to place with the other. “Please, let’s be seated if you have some time to share with me.”  
“Our pleasure,” Ethan said offering his handful to Gurd to take his choice waiting for Billie to choose her seat. “Please call me Ethan, Dama.”  
Reluctantly, Gurd moved his hand from Ethan’s neck to take a cookie. His gaze held Ethan’s eyes for a moment. Ethan’s eyebrows abruptly flickering up for an instant questioning the gaze. Their eyes turning to Dama as the thumping intro to “Shoot Your Shot” by Divine was erupting from the speakers.  
Placing her small, fringed, leather purse on the table, Billie stood leaning against a bar stool with her back to the door. Sam placed his right hand on Gurd’s shoulder. Gurd turned lowering his head to kiss Sam’s hand. His lips lingering, listening, and nodding his response to Sam’s whispered question if he slept well. Smiling, Sam leaned against the wooden fence. Gurd turned his attention to Dama Billie Hatathli. The men in the garden were joining boisterously in the lyrics with Divine shoot your shot!  
“Friends of mine were at the reception yesterday,” Billie explained glancing with her soft, brown eyes from Ethan to Gurd. “They were fortunate enough to have captured the two you on film at the reception with their phones along with photos of the bride and groom. On their way home to Santa Fe, they dropped by to share them with me. I thought I could take this opportunity to meet Ethan, and conduct a little preliminary business with you, Mr. Khase. So I called Sam and asked this favor of him.”  
“Call me Gurd, please, Dama,” Gurd said smiling eyebrows knitting slightly, eyes inquiring.  
“I’m the estate administrator of the Hacienda Karabaldo for the Señora,” she responded, Gurd’s look of curiosity transforming to comprehension as she continued. “I contacted you last week concerning the ground-penetrating radar investigation of an archaeological site on the Karabaldo property.  
“The Señora is planning to build a free health clinic on her property for children staffed by traditional healers,” Billie explained fingernails flashing as she adjusted her mantilla and hair, turning her gaze back to Ethan. “The only piece of her land that isn’t used for crops and livestock has prehistoric remains on it.”  
“Shoot your shot!” the bar patrons chorused.  
In response to Sam’s silent shift to a squatting position next to him, Gurd glanced down at him. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Ethan’s head swivel toward the door while adjusting the blue bandanna around his forehead, the red bandanna in his fist. Gurd briefly flicked his eyes sideways over his shoulder under the brim of his hat to see two tall, athletic men in their thirties with military bearing and haircuts standing in the doorway. Each was casually holding a bottle of beer, seemingly attempting to conceal their apparent purposeful scrutiny of the crowd growing rowdier shouting the lyrics with Divine.  
They all glanced up at a rapid series of bangs overhead. Several guys yelled and cursed as a ball of firecrackers soaring in an arc over the fence landed among the men, tables, and chairs. A table and big umbrella tumbled down in the confusion and turmoil. Gurd rose swiftly to his feet grabbing the napkin from the tray sweeping up the ball of firecrackers pitching it back over the wall. He turned, his glare of rebuke for their behavior at silent the crowd of patrons. Instantly all the men returned to yelling the lyrics of the song with Divine.  
Gurd returned his grip to the back of Ethan’s neck as they all settled in their seats. Sam reached up to place a hand on Gurd’s thigh. Gurd laid his hand on Sam’s.  
“You were saying, Dama?” Gurd asked grinning, indigo eyes hard as uncut sapphires.

Chapter Twenty-Five  
Berserk and Angel Heart

“How many people have you killed?” Ethan murmuring sitting on Gurd’s waist in the bedroom of the condo.  
Skin flushed from a short bout of wrestling, Gurd was flat on his back in bed each wrist restrained in Ethan’s tight grip. Head on pillow, his face was stony, erection throbbing.  
“Ludicrous!” Gurd whispered in exasperation, eyes flaring. “Too many! How, Ethan, can you ask that question here and now?”  
Gurd heard a moan quickly developing into a faint growl followed by a discontented chuffing coming from the other side of the closed bedroom door. He listened to the scuffling sound of one-hundred-ten pound Flora settling herself on the floor against the door.  
“It’s okay Flora,” Gurd said in a loud, firm, calming voice.  
“What do you mean ludicrous?” Ethan said face slack, mouth slightly open, attempting to seem offended, gazing down at Gurd.  
“Well, let’s see, Ethan,” Gurd smiling fiercely, eyes smoldering under the heavy, down-sweeping eyelashes. “You ask me how many people I’ve killed while wrestling naked, kissing in bed?”  
“Multi-tasking is the cliché of the day. Never experienced arousal and analysis simultaneously?” Ethan huffed chin tucked eyebrows arching, lifting his left hand scratching his nose.  
“Never tried.” Gurd sighing suppressing his angry impulse to kick Ethan out of bed out the door.  
Gurd’s gaze dropped to Wee Clown’s costume scattered on the sheets. The little harlequin tunic, the white, Elizabethan ruff-collar, and conical, red hat with sparkling rim and tiny glittering bauble on the point.  
“Answer, without the sarcasm,” Ethan whispering gently kissing Gurd’s lips, chin, and neck.  
“I don’t know,” Gurd replied forcefully exhaling exasperated, plucking up the little tunic tossing it at Ethan, tumescence drifting. “Six for sure, Ethan, probably two others that managed to escape probably didn’t survive the wounds. What else could I do to make them stop? I wanted them to stop, go away. Leave us alone. Will you please shut up about it?”  
“How many times were you attacked, Hurdy Gurdy? Where? Did you get a hard-on? I think I would. It has an erotic element, doesn’t it? Fighting, killing?” Ethan asked switching to softly lick Gurd’s ear.  
“Why would I want to remember?” Gurd squeezed his eyes against a series of violent visions, voice strained. “Two or three times a year probably every year for ten years maybe, in cities, in the jungle, on boats in rivers, in the desert,” his breathing becoming erratic.  
“I was a boy then by American standards, younger than any American soldier. Most American soldiers at least enjoyed their childhood, their youth. Did you say erotic?!” Gurd gasped opening his eyes.  
“Keep talking,” Ethan whispering. “What did you feel?”  
“I didn’t feel anything. Angry maybe, berserk,” Gurd whispering, eyes staring wide gazing at Ethan, “Berserk is what I felt. Like I’m in an altered state of mind. Like I was somebody else. In another reality. That’s the best I can do. It’s not something that can be expressed in words. Not something I want to think about, talk about.”  
“Talking might help,” Ethan murmured tenderly kissing the scarred jaw.  
“Let me sleep on it, Ethan,” Gurd replied stiffly, gazing from Ethan’s eyes up at the starry night.  
#  
Ethan hit the ground in Mag Mell running. On the second stride, he felt a tingle around his right ankle the sensation of something instantly constricting around it. The next second the leg was jerked from beneath him sending him crashing onto his chest banging his forehead knocking the breath out of him. The water in the tiny reservoir erupting from the fake boutonniere in his lapel staining his black suit. His glittering, round, red nose, bowler hat, and shimmering rainbow wig tumbling away in the sparkling grass as Ethan was hauled backward and upward kicking, flailing his arms. Silently calculating defensive tactics.  
The ambient narrative of the Netherworld, Beethoven’s Symphony Number Nine—Ode to Joy—chorus soaring into the final movement. A squirrel chattering furiously.  
As he was zipping feet-first up into the glimmering boughs of the ancient oak rooted next to the placid pond, Cactus Granny was serenely gliding down holding the other end of the gleaming, black rope. When Ethan was upside-down, gasping at eye level with her, Granny settled on a branch tying the rope securely around it, grumbling, mumbling. With a thump and a grunt, Ethan came to rest high off the ground his back against the oak’s glowing brown, amber and russet bark swirling in a motion similar to the soft, flowing-curtain of the Northern Lights.  
Ethan stopped thrashing and kicking. The glowing jade locket dangling below Ethan’s head, the cord from which it was suspended held by his ears. The symphony chorus and bass drums gave way to a soloist and strings. A squirrel high in the limbs chirruping, fussing. Granny smoothed her shimmering Coco Chanel little-black-dress, her sheathed, obsidian blade tucked into a garter belt on her thigh, gazing at him quizzically, speculatively.  
Beneath Cactus Granny’s tall, slightly crumpled, pointy, black hat pierced with an assortment of sparkling sewing needles and pins, her long, gray hair was arranged loosely in a bun at the back of her neck. Her narrow, wrinkly face, arching eyebrows, aquiline nose, and down-turned mouth twisting. Admonishment glistening in her big brown eyes.  
Watching him steadily as Ethan exhaled heavily releasing his anxiety, Granny drew a knife from the sheath. She adjusted the hem of her dress to cover her shapely knees, flicking away bits of glistening bark and glossy leaves, clearing her throat. She unraveled what appeared to be the sash tied around her waist. Ethan knew it was the carefully cured skin of the material world’s most venomous snake, a strop for sharpening the blade.  
“Reckless! Developing a taste for murder?” Granny rumbled.  
Ethan huffed crossing his arms, eyes rolling 360 degrees clockwise. A child caught and awaiting a tongue lashing by an elder.  
“You don’t look much like a hero,” Cactus Granny grunted dodging an acorn spitting on the black blade. “You better calm down Pomp! There’s big trouble! You want the bad news first or the worst news last?”  
“Gimme the bad news first,” Ethan sighing unfolding his arms palms together placing the sole of his left foot against the side of his right knee assuming the Tree pose upside-down. He suddenly realized he must look like the image of “The Hanged Man” in the Tarot cards believed to be derived from the story of Norse god, Odin, hanging from the world tree, Yggdrasil.  
Granny yanked the rope jerking him back from his drift on the subject of Odin’s self-torturing method of entering the Netherworld. She vigorously stropped the knife an act Ethan associated with Granny’s worried agitation.  
“Ever see the de Niro movie Angel Heart?” Granny asked, glaring, chin jutting pausing looking down examining the glittering edge hat brim bobbing.  
“That was dying human to living human transfer of spirit, an involved ritual with complicated timing of the breath, Granny,” Ethan replied, eyes narrowing sliding sideways to hold Granny’s riveting gaze, the chorus, and bass drums flaring squirrel fussing another glowing, green acorn zipping down. “Been around at least since the Egyptians, probably even before Mesopotamia.”  
“There’s been a transfer of a human spirit from a dying person—Elizardo—to a living bull,” Granny said stropping a moment, reaching up to check her sparkling needles with one hand flicking falling leaves from the glimmering hat brim. “I don’t know how it happened, or which bull on the Lagash ranch, one in a hundred.  
“In Egyptian terms, the ka,” (her breath luminescent mist pouring forth as she pronounced the Egyptian word for ‘spirit-breath’) “is in the kA,” (Egyptian for bull) a cackle at her pun, dry, mirthless, a pause holding the blade at arms-length for a moment.  
“Granny, it must have been a simple accident, a curious bull wandered up, took a sniff at Elizardo’s body in the same instant his body gave up its dying breath,” Ethan said twitching his right toes trying to restore some circulation reaching out snatching luminous acorns hurtled by the squirrel, juggling four. “The human spirit-breath, ka” (scintillating mist billowing), “left Elizardo and entered the bull, kA, when the bull snorted in surprise at the death rattle. A serendipitous death-rattle-to-snort transference.”  
“If it was not serendipity, the second option is the worst-case scenario. Someone or something we don’t know about conducted the ritual of transference on the property of one of Carousel’s targets,” Granny responded gloomily, mouth pinched. Sheathing the blade, adjusting hem and twinkling sash, folding her hands in the lap of her sparkling dress glowing leaves wafting down. “Someone who knows how to keep a bull under control.”  
Granny studied Ethan watching a fluorescent acorn escape leaving Ethan three to twirl between his dazzling phosphorescent hands. The dramatic chorus of the symphony fading to a soloist.  
“Ritual or serendipity, the life-force of a human, psychopathic, drug addict is in a bull! The bull is on the Lagash ranch,” Cactus Granny said steadily holding Ethan’s gaze despite the flurry of glowing leaves and the furious fussing of the squirrel scrambling around above them. “There’s a corresponding creature here in the Netherworld, most likely roaming around in Shipap, a correlate of the physical bull with the spirit force of psycho-Elizardo in it.  
“As long as the corporeal bull lives, the corresponding, Underworld, hybrid-spirit will live. A creature down here possessed just like the bull up there is possessed. We’re talking about something beyond White-eyes, or hollowed-eyed Riddles, Pomp,” Cactus Granny frowned eyebrows knitting forefinger tapping her knee for emphasis radiant-teal fingernails flickering. Ethan noted the worried pinched look and pursed lips were relaxing. Their conversation seeming to relieve Granny’s tension. She was lightly, rhythmically swinging a bare foot toenails flashing teal.  
“Something deranged as that might be able to forcibly cross the boundaries between dimensions. Maybe even break out into the conscious realm. I realize we’re talking about an extremely low probability, but you need to be prepared when you hear bumps in the night, claps of thunder on a clear day or feel rumblings under your feet that might just be a vengeful demon struggling against the barriers between dimensions looking for you!” Granny warned craning her head forward eyes wide finger jabbing and twirling among the glistening, fluttering emerald leaves.  
“The creature might even render a breach allowing other things to escape from the dimension it occupies into the physical realm. There’ve been many threats to unleash the inhabitants of hell over the millennia beginning way back in Mesopotamia. The first recorded threat made then was by the goddess, Inanna,” the emphasis on the name and meaning of the analogy was not wasted on Ethan sighing heavily.  
Rolling his eyes 360 degrees counterclockwise, Ethan fumbled the gleaming acorns. He recovered one pitching it back at the fussing squirrel. The Ninth Symphony barreled onward, drums and chorus soaring.  
“I’ll make one last observation on the bad news, and I realize the odds against it are astronomical,” Cactus Granny continued eyelids lowered fingertips drumming on knee. “Nevertheless, if that hybrid-demon breaks out of the Netherworld and makes contact with the corporeal bull in any way, shape, or form, even if one so much as breaths on the other, then we’re all dead. Matter versus antimatter, figuratively speaking.”  
“And the worst news?” Ethan inquired resuming Tree placing his palms together as their radiance began to fade.  
“Puck and that bunch of clowns you call your Interdimensional Spy Ring?” Cactus Granny queried chin thrusting forward right eye narrowing.  
“Yeah?”  
“They are one-hundred-percent sure TOP is onto Carousel and their henchmen are closing in either on you or the Bay office, maybe both,” Granny muttered watching Ethan’s face turn to stone his body stiffen. “They say they don’t know who for certain is informing TOP, but I’d say everything is pointing in one direction.  
“Could be the same person that conducted the ritual of transference,” Granny whispered remaining poised gripping her hands together lips in a straight line. “If so, Astarte was only a few steps behind you on her ranch the night Elizardo died and is now a few steps ahead of you. Meaning she’s got something in mind for that Elizardo-bull. I’ve warned you about her.  
Gurd remained motionless. He was trying to listen to Granny and think of plans for Wade and Chester, the horses and dogs. Contingency plans had been developed but he needed to know more before deciding which to implement.  
“I spend a little time gossiping with a certain set of folks you’re not aware of in Mictlan. They’ve told me Astarte’s deluded herself into believing she’s a sorceress or some such childish thing, animal and human sacrifices,” Granny said with distaste, contempt, mouth sour flinging a hand dismissively. “Not so bad in itself but Astarte may have managed to delude others in the physical dimension into the same fantasy. Manipulation is her forte.  
“One last thing about the worst news, Pomp,” Granny huffed gazing at Ethan, the last notes of the symphony trailing away, the Netherworld ambiance momentarily hushed, imperceptible. The squirrel hiccupped fell silent. “Astarte has long been a habitué of the Land of Shadows, the place Shades linger before returning to their Source.  
“All kinds of Shades down there,” Cactus Granny whispered in the silence knuckle rubbing her chin eyes heavily lidded the swinging foot stilled. “Some Shades have been known to bust out of that place if they are forced. Some walk out on their own compelled to wreak vengeance on an enemy or atone for something on their conscience. Not often, but it happens.  
“I’m told Astarte’s enslaved her human sacrifices in some manner,” Granny Cactus frowning, uncertain, eyes locked on Ethan returning her stare motionless listening calculating. “They’re her spies in that dimension. The Shades of the three you killed and the Shades of her sacrifices might just be the dots connecting all the other dots. That’d be my guess.  
“Not many of those in the world these days,” she added gesturing at the jade locket concealing the obsidian mirror. “Anybody looking for a man carrying one of them….”

Chapter Twenty-Six  
Cyberespionage and Three Winks

Gurd woke from the first harrowing nightmare feeling desperate. Hands were firmly holding each of his forearms at his sides, the scent of spice and tea, the voice in his ear familiar the imaged blurred.  
“Easy, Gurdjieff,” soft, mellow and deep. “Quiet Flora. Flora, quiet!”  
He sensed something was not quite right, something out of place, but Gurd felt soothed by the voice. He closed his eyes. Relaxing, drifting back to sleep.  
The second nightmare was more intense and agonizingly protracted. Gurd’s arms and legs were pinned down so he couldn’t move. The dark antagonist framed by flames opening his chest with a stone knife, tugging at his heart. A warm sheet of blood seeping down to his navel, across to his nipples, and up to his throat draining his strength. Gurd roared with frustration and hatred.  
“Easy, Hurdy Gurdy,” spoken crisp and firm.  
Gurd licked his dry lips slowly opening his eyes meeting the intense stare from a pair of green irises like cool, uncut emeralds. The warmth from the dream surging through his waking body now giving him strength not robbing him. Ethan was lying spread-eagle on top of him his torso, arms, and legs covering Gurd, kissing him gently parting his lips softly exchanging breath.  
“Gurd,” Ethan breathed with relief shaking his head raising his eyebrows, “you were a far scarier sight than your nightmare. Believe me.”  
“God! It’ll be a while before I can quiet her,” Gurd muttered aware of Flora’s furious barking. “That’s why I can’t keep any of them here overnight. You better get in the closet and close the door.  
“Stay in there until I get her downstairs,” Gurd whispered rising from the bed with Ethan. From the floor, he grabbed the clothes he wore yesterday pulling on the shorts and T-shirt.  
“Sam’s down there,” Ethan whispered, eyebrows elevated, creeping toward the closet.  
“What? Why? What’s happened?” Gurd asked eyes narrowing brow wrinkling suddenly remembering his waking after the first nightmare, glancing at the clock. “Was he here when I woke up in the middle of the night? Was that you or him?”  
“Him,” Ethan said closing the closet door.  
Gurd pulled the bedroom door open quickly backing away. Flora charged halfway through the doorway, stopping, growling when she saw him, glancing past him. He knelt and spoke softly soothing, placating her, but she was too wound up. After a moment, she was wagging her tail allowing Gurd to caress her head and ears. Two minutes later he was downstairs at the door strapping on her halter, snapping on her leash.  
“Hey, Sam,” he said glancing into the bathroom where Sam was stretched out in the bathtub head reclining on the rim, washcloth over his face, his wet hair dark, limp. “What happened last night?”  
He walked with Flora to the tub surprised to see how disconcertingly small and frail Sam looked in the big tub. The dwindling bubble-bath foam twirling off the jets of water.  
“A misunderstanding,” Sam replied raising his hands adjusting the washcloth peeking out with his right eye. “Taking Flora out for a walk?”  
“Yeah,” Gurd answered concerned something more than the washcloth was muddling Sam’s speech. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”  
In response, Sam raised his left hand in a thumbs-up gesture. Gurd hesitated but turned to leave the bathroom.  
Once outside Flora shook herself vigorously. A flock of sparrows awakening in their roosting tree across the street began chirping excitedly amid the first rays of sunlight. Gurd tried to relish the tranquil stroll with Flora to the park and back, but it did little to assuage the sense of dread he felt in the mornings following a nightmare.  
“If I hadn’t done it he would,” Ethan said as Gurd opened the door.  
Unsnapping the leash, Gurd glanced in to see the tub stacked high to overflowing with foam. Both Sam and Ethan sat among the bubbles, one reclining at each end of the tub.  
“Would what?” Gurd asked. He turned into the kitchen, taking dog food from the cabinet, filling the bowl on the floor next to Flora’s water bowl.  
Running his hand along her back as she lowered her head to eat, Gurd moved toward the bathroom. His incredulity grew as he neared the tub, fully apprehending the damage to the left side of Sam’s face.  
“What the hell misunderstanding?!” Gurd yelled angrily his dark eyes glaring, mouth gaping at the puffy, dark skin around the eye, the cornea blazing red and swollen, the ripped lip.  
Flora choked on the growl welling up into a bark. Gurd slapped hands to both sides of his head.  
“Gurd,” Ethan said lips prim in a stilted tone arching his left eyebrow and nodding curtly for emphasis. “You’re not going to be helpful here if you upset Flora and Sam.”  
Gurd turned facing away from them. The absurdly pompous, imperious tone Ethan used made him want to laugh. Last night he was torn between physical pleasure and emotional pain. Now he was feeling urges to shout with anger and laugh. Briefly glancing to see Flora returning to her food, he swiveled to sit on the toilet, elbows on knees, face resting in his hands. Confused, he glared down at his growing erection.  
“Damn misunderstanding!” he muttered fiercely into his hands, shaking his head.  
Instantly other faces with injuries similar to Sam’s flashed through his mind. One of the faces belonging to a youthful assailant his age at the time, the boy on the verge of death for days despite all Gurd and Thamade could do for him finally dying.  
“Okay, who’s going to tell me what happened?” Gurd asked a few moments later willing the tumescence down. He’d stopped trembling, wiping his hair from his forehead, elbows on knees, hands dangling, turning to stare at them.  
“Listen to me carefully, Gurdjieff,” even though Sam spoke slowly and as clearly as he could the words were still slightly garbled. “Nobody’s going to tell you anything.”  
“So get in the tub and shut up,” Ethan said in a flat commanding, no-nonsense tone his green eyes unblinking below the tangle of wet, red curls.  
Gurd stood cocking his head first to the left till his neck bones popped then to the right. He hoped the grimace on his face didn’t reflect the tightrope he was walking between tears and contemptuous laughter at his anguish.  
Walking into the kitchen, Gurd lit the remnant of a joint, inhaling deeply. He fiddled with the earring, fingered the scar on his jaw, twisted the horsehair bracelet, puffed. He bowed his head, wiped away the tears took a long puff dropping the tiny roach into the sink. Watching the ember slowly fade, glancing at the stains on his fingertips, he lowered his hand to rub Flora’s ears.  
Returning to the tub, Gurd dropped his clothes. He stepped in the water, turning around sliding down between Sam and Ethan his back to the tiled wall resisting his need to caress Sam’s face.  
“So,” Gurd said passing a hand rubbing down his face head hanging studying the iridescence gliding on the surface of the bubbles, “I guess you’ll be coming with us today, Samwise.”  
“Us?” Ethan asked.  
“You have something else to do?” Gurd asked calmly, eyes sliding sideways.  
“No!” Ethan exclaimed eyes bright grinning. “I’ve always wanted to work on an archaeological site just never had the time. I’m all in!”  
#  
The Karabaldo estate stretched about half a mile from the highway to the Pecos River. The broad, gravel drive beyond the gate, which Sam opened with the code Billie gave him years ago, was bordered by a whitewashed wooden fence. The stony pastures were dotted with stands of pinyon, juniper, sagebrush, and a few thorny mesquites. Gurd edged past several cars parked along the drive near the house, thinking the air smelled faintly of smoke from the Las Conchas wildfire even though it was miles to the west.  
In jeans and long-sleeved, lavender shirt, a white scarf around her neck, hair in a messy bun Billie waved from the stone-paved area surrounding the fountain in front of the house. Gurd thought she looked remarkably cool in the sweltering heat.  
An old wagon harnessed to a pair of black-and-white Gypsy Cobs stood to her left. A large, Native American man in his mid-twenties stood rubbing the horses, grooming their forelocks with his fingers, softly whistling between his front teeth. He wore the traditional, Mexican, white peasant garb, his long hair gathered in a sleek ponytail. Chickens clucked and pecked beyond the paving around the fountain as Gurd eased the Jeep to a stop.  
Ethan’s phone rang as Gurd set the brake. The exchange was brief and hurried, and while they were getting out of the Jeep, he reported Burl discovered Gurd’s computer had been hacked. Chester and Wade were sifting, analyzing the collected data.  
“Sorry for being late,” Gurd said, tipping his straw hat gesturing at Sam who was creeping from the back seat with Flora on her lead, “but the unexpected happens when you least expect it.”  
“True,” Billie agreed grimly watching Sam’s movements as she opened the back door of the wagon.  
“The Señora insists on you taking the wagon,” she said warmly while Gurd and Ethan unloaded the equipment, and Sam limped over to sit on the rim of the fountain with Flora on leash. “She enjoys using it every month to make her rounds of the land when there is no snow on the ground. It’s a relic from her sheep herding days with her parents. Ethan can handle it as well as he does the ones he drives in the arena during rodeo intermissions. You can load your equipment here. The floor is padded, the springs are in good condition, and the track is not rough, so it should come to no harm.”  
“The Señora will be in Santa Fe most of the day,” Billie said with a smile, eyes flashing in the sunlight.  
While moving his gear, Gurd listened as his father had taught him as a child to listen to people. He was amazed at how Billie’s voice and presence seemed confident, comforting. He felt as though she required no response just a smile and a nod from him.  
“She hopes to get preliminary drawings from the architects indicating the size and locations for the buildings. She’d be grateful if you have the time to stay for dinner this evening and share the results of your investigation. Inside I have a copy of the contract you e-mailed, Gurd, signed by the Señora.  
“If you need more than one day she’d be pleased for you to stay with us overnight. There are always friends here for lunch and dinner during the week,” she gestured at the cars in the drive. “Three more guests will be no inconvenience, and there are always beds upstairs and hammocks in the courtyard garden prepared for overnight guests. It’s a big house.  
“I hope you don’t need Sam. I’d like him to take a look at our little band of horses and goats,” she said laying her hand firmly on Sam’s shoulder to keep him in his seat.  
Sam smiled in a wane manner raising his hand to give Flora’s leash to Gurd, who leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, holding his gaze for a moment. Sam smiled reassuringly.  
“Señora Karabaldo has four children,” Billie continued, smiling. “Two biological sons who no longer live here, and adopted twins. Cielo, who drove the Señora into town, and Sueño. They are mute, but they understand English and Spanish.  
“Sueño,” Billie gestured at the man holding the horses, the man nodding, “This is Gurd and Ethan. Sueño will lead you to the site then will go about his rounds on the property.”  
#  
The site was located at the southern, fenced end of the property bordered by the river to the east. A rugged outcrop of stone jutted up along the fenced property line, extending a short distance into the river capturing a small backwater pool. Just north of the area was a grove of cottonwood trees. Thinking a day could hardly be spent in a better way, Gurd deeply inhaled the moist scent of fallen cottonwood leaves, watching the river roll, glancing around to judge how the shadows would fall during the day.  
They walked around the area among the Black-eyed Susan making an initial determination of the site’s extent. Gurd could sense Ethan’s excitement at the sight of so many potsherds absentmindedly tying bandannas around his forehead, neck, and wrists.  
“Look!” Ethan yelled, eyes wide, mouth agape, stooping pinching something from the ground between forefinger and thumb.  
“HALLELUIAH! YEE! HAW!” Ethan yelling throwing back his head gripping the object in his fist.  
Gurd grinned chuckling as Ethan somersaulted down toward the river cartwheeled back up bouncing off a big cottonwood. He stood gaping as Ethan grappled with the tree climbing it balancing on the lowest big branch cartwheeling along the limb gripping it to swing dangling feet kicking dropping into the river. Ethan thrashed around yelling diving under the surface appearing on the far bank about thirty yards away climbing out tackling another big tree back-flipping from a low bough into the sparkling river.  
“WAHOO!”  
“Ethan!” Gurd shouted strolling down to the river. He was uncertain how to deal with a manic, bipolar episode thinking he shouldn’t interfere unless Ethan was in danger of hurting himself. Gurd doubted he could restraint Ethan in his present state of exuberance.  
“YEEHAW! WOOHOO! That was fun!” Ethan exclaimed several minutes later after splashing around in the water bouncing off the banks and boulders. He popped onto the shore heaving, gasping, adjusting the bandannas.  
“What’d you find?” Gurd inquired grinning.  
“What’d I find?” Ethan asked panting, hair and clothes dripping. His green eyes were bright, wide, quizzical.  
“Ethan,” Gurd said calmly with his fingertips gently combing Ethan’s hair from his brow untying the bandannas. “Let me help you out of those wet clothes, and we’ll hang them on a branch to dry. Steady.”  
#  
Together they removed and assembled the ground-penetrating radar equipment, and Gurd placed the computer on the canvas seat of a folding director’s chair in shade. Activating the program, he showed Ethan how it worked. He stripped down to his boxers and boots tucked a few khat leaves between cheek and gums and started rolling the unit over the site in parallel, east-west transits.  
After secretively searching for his medicine, Ethan downed a tiny pellet leaving very few in the plastic bottle. He adjusted his glasses watching the screen for a while as the image developed. He opened his backpack removing and turning on his phones and computer, sitting in the director’s chair, conducting his own business. Ethan kept an eye on Gurd’s computer screen while answering text messages, making and answering phone calls, rummaging through his newspapers, pecking at his keyboard, or tootling on his ocarina when his hands were free.  
When Flora tired of following Gurd or wandering within limits he set for her by his whistles she laid next to Ethan’s chair. Gurd watched Ethan dozing naked hoping he didn’t tumble out of the chair.  
When the day began to heat up, they took a brief break for a lunch of bagels, honey, nuts, and bananas. Gurd fed Flora a few treats. Ethan removed his glasses informing him Chester called to say he believed the hackers were a conservative evangelical group in New Mexico. They were part of a larger national group supporting the conspiracy theory science and scientists are out to take away their guns and eliminate religion.  
Voice and hands rising and falling as he slathered on sunscreen, Ethan explained Chester suggested the hackers might have a particular dislike for scientists involved in promoting the theory of evolution, particularly the evolution of human civilization. Chester believed the evangelical-hackers were suspicious of scientists claiming to study cultural evolution but, instead, were concocting a conspiracy to control, dictate, or direct the course of social development. Gurd repeatedly erupted into incredulous laughter at Ethan’s light-hearted and lively delivery of the news.  
“Thanks!” Ethan concluded with an enthusiastic kiss. In response to Gurd’s mildly quizzical expression put a hairy, right arm around his bare, tanned shoulders and explained.  
“In designing algorithms, there is always a domain,” Ethan continued in an excited rush, gesturing with his left hand, “realm of the unknown, things you know you haven’t factored into the algorithm because you just can’t think of all the relevant influences involved in the dynamics. We lump all the unknowns into one domain. Everybody has a name for it. I call it and code it Omega.  
“You’ve provided them with one thing we haven’t considered, the effect of malicious hacking and meddling by evangelicals into scientists’ computers. The conservative effects of faith on the progress of reason,” adding with a chuckle, tilting his head back. “The struggle developed in the Medieval Age between faith and reason is intensifying and escalating into cyber espionage in the Computer Age!  
“Their investigations of this single national witch-hacker operation indicates a statistically significant effect spreading into the western states from its initial launch site in New Mexico academia. I hope I said all that correctly,” Ethan pausing musing eyes swiveling briefly to the ground back up to Gurd. “They all must have stayed up all night to arrive at that conclusion, pounding out formulas and feeding them into computers. God, literally, only knows what the international effect of these hackers might be on science, the world. You’re our hero!  
“Oh!” Ethan continued with a grin a single, hard smack of his palms, arms flinging out dramatically. “Last night after you were asleep—sometimes bipolar people don’t sleep much—I sent an e-mail to them describing your dissertation paradigm along with some of my thoughts on modifications to our algorithms. Orientation unaltered, of course, but we’ll need to adjust our categories of impacts and cycles and negative and positive feedback loops. There’ll be redefinitions of affinities, subtleties in associations, nuances in relationships, blah-blah! It’ll snowball into a major overhaul. They’ve already started designing a new algorithm for New Mexico as a trial for the other states. That’ll take a while, but the fact they have started on it means they wholeheartedly agree elements of your paradigm will improve ours.  
“Chester thinks Carousel needs to hire you as a consultant. I told him it couldn’t be anything formal with a paper trail,” Ethan said somber lowering his voice searching Gurd’s eyes, hands gripping his shoulders. “They’ll be putting together a list of preliminary issues they may need you to help them resolve. Wade will e-mail the list to me and I’ll print it for you to review. The two of you can hammer out the details over the phone when you have time. You won’t need to use your phone. Chester will call me on one of mine and you can discuss stuff with him on it. Don’t use your computers for any Carousel communications. We should get a new one for developing the dissertation algorithm.  
“Just think, Gurd, how much you might contribute to saving our environment and improving the quality of life for people!”  
Ethan hugged Gurd, gave him a fierce kiss, and turned to check his communications. Gurd tucked in fresh khat, briefly rotating the horsehair bracelet, returning to the ground-penetrating radar. Continuing his stroll over the site, he soberly contemplated the changing tenor and tone, possibly the direction, of his life.  
Gurd believed he was making a positive contribution to the archaeological profession and the Archaeological Record through the work of his company, his supervision and training his employees, and his teaching of undergraduate classes at Harvard. That was his reason for being an archaeologist. He was now considering the possibility he could make valuable contributions to people—to the lives of individual human beings, not to their institutions, their archives. He contemplated life beyond archaeology as he rolled the GPR over the sandy ground around the Black-eye Susan under the hot sun.  
#  
“I just talked with Chester and Burl,” Ethan said suppressing his enthusiasm later that afternoon walking along with Gurd on one of the transits.  
“Burl wants to bounce around Silicon Valley,” Ethan continued, walking beside Gurd kissing his shoulder and neck. “He’s planning to buy equipment to build a computer. I suspect he’ll have to disassemble and destroy the parts when he’s done doing his counter-espionage.  
“So I signed off on it, sounds like fun and games! Lordy! It’s hot!” Ethan said. He winked in response to Gurd’s quizzical expression reminding him not to ask questions that could affect his health and safety.  
Just after six o’clock as he was shutting down the equipment, and Ethan was untethering, watering the brawny horses at the river Gurd’s phone rang. He pulled it from his back pocket pausing to check the caller ID before deciding to spit out the khat.  
“Hey, Eric,” he said holding the phone between shoulder and cheek. Eyes on the equipment checking controls.  
He fell silent for several minutes crouching down to secure loose ends, flinching from the heat of the metal. He didn’t rise from his position, but stopped, turning to look directly, steadily at Ethan as he was harnessing the horses. Another few minutes passed in this position as Ethan finished, walking back to lean against the wagon to the left of the open door.  
“Okay, thanks, Eric,” Gurd said quietly, “thanks, Eduardo.”  
Closing the phone, Gurd stood to wrap the phone in a bandanna, slipping it into a front pocket. He picked up the unit carrying it over to the wagon packing the instrument inside the padded case.  
“That was Eduardo and Eric,” Gurd said hesitantly, settling the equipment handling it with bandannas on his hands like potholders.  
“The deaths on the Lagash property has caused the old man to come under some unwelcome scrutiny,” he said in an even, non-committal manner closing the case, wiping it and his face with bandannas.  
“The State investigation led to some discoveries about undocumented Mexicans being used as forced, unpaid labor in the drilling operations. The FBI thinks Elizardo was instrumental in arranging for that unpaid labor to be brought from south of the border. Possibly some Mexicans had their revenge on him. Seems he died of shock like the other two, but reportedly he was not an easy man to shock,” Gurd said wiping his chin, somber, shrugging into his shirt taking a pull on the insulated canteen handing it to Ethan.  
He glanced sideways at Ethan in an inquiring manner. Ethan winked, took a long drink.  
“The body of a battered, nude and mutilated Air Force instructor was found this morning,” Gurd drew a long breath, canting his head right, calmly holding Ethan’s gaze. “The body was on the razor-wire topping the eight-foot-high, chain-link fence in back of Holloman Air Force Base. Eduardo has a weak stomach so he wouldn’t let Eric elaborate on the scene.  
“The second body of an Air Force instructor in the same condition was found at the foot of the fence outside the Base with a big brick of cocaine under it,” Gurd said quietly eyebrows flickering up for an instant, eyes shifting sideways then back to Ethan wiping his face with a blue bandanna. “The drug was wrapped with old materials in a manner that hasn’t been seen for over two decades. So lots of FBI, DIA, DEA are getting involved as well as local and State.”  
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Gurd continued to stare at Ethan. Ethan stuffed the bandanna in his back pocket folded his arms across his chest, sighed, shook his head.  
“Both men allegedly had reputations for sexual misconduct with subordinates, male subordinates,” Gurd whispered turning to his left to fully face Ethan. “The two men were seen in Glans Waterin Hole yesterday.”  
Ethan’s broad, open face was empty of expression, inscrutable. He moved his head slightly toward Gurd till they locked eyes. He winked. He gave Gurd a light kiss on the lips.  
“Did you get an erection?” Gurd murmured pulling away, searching his pack for his hashish kit listening to Ethan walk away, the wagon creaking as he bounced into the driver’s seat.  
Gazing at the river, Gurd lit the joint. He contemplated the fleeting micro expression contorting Ethan’s face at the mention of Elizardo. The glaring eyes, lowered brow, flaring nose, rising mouth and chin, thinning lips: Rage.

Chapter Twenty-Seven  
Shaman and Trickster

Billie persuaded Gurd and Ethan to have dinner and stay at the hacienda overnight so they could meet some people considering investing their time and services in the clinic. She took them and Flora on a brief tour of the north tower. On the ground floor was a large, guest washroom with ceilings twelve feet high as in the foyer. The white tiles of the floor and walls accented with several hues of green Moroccan tiles. The double lavatory and enclosed toilet were separated by a wall from the large Jacuzzi and shower. Surrounded by ferns, the hot tub was flooded with light from an expansive glass-block window in the north wall.  
A mahogany, spiral stairway on the bath side led up to a bedroom with an equally high ceiling. On the king-size bed lay two, cerulean-blue, cotton tunics and pairs of trousers Billie and Sam sewed for them that day. Billie was dressed in a similar pale green outfit, her scarf was lavender and her jewelry green turquoise and silver.  
“Sam is asleep in the south tower,” she said softly, caressing Flora’s ears and head. “I applied ointments and light dressings and he drank some herbal tea this afternoon following sewing, gossiping, and helping Mia and Rosario in the kitchen.  
“Don’t upset Flora,” she said gently as Gurd’s renewed agitation at being in the dark about Sam’s violent encounter became obvious. “I’ll take her over to sleep with Sam where she’ll be more comfortable than here by herself, or downstairs among the other guests. Just follow your ears and nose to find us when you’re ready.”  
Listening to Ethan ramble on about algorithms and archaeology, Gurd was quiet, and contemplative while they showered, dressed, descending the stairs walking into the foyer barefoot. Along the west wall on each side of the entrance on Berber rugs was an assortment of footgear left there by them and the other guests. On the floor along the east wall were stacks of books, some on makeshift bookshelves, and others on boxes.  
Beneath the limbs of one of the Areca palms in large urns framing the big mahogany doors, Gurd noticed an African Grey parrot peering out at him. The next moment he realized the bird was sitting on the left shoulder of the diminutive Señora Karabaldo. She was standing by a cart on casters turning the pages of a book so large it almost covered the top of the cart. She was attired in a richly embroidered, Mexican peasant-blouse, jeans, and sandals, her gray hair arranged in the once-traditional, Pueblo butterfly whorls.  
“We’re so pleased and grateful you decided to join us this evening,” she said happily, looking up with smiling blue eyes. Her voice was as small and precise as her form.  
“Very pleased,” croaked the parrot.  
“You must be Gurd Khase, the renowned archaeologist,” she said eagerly nodding at him as Gurd glanced down to see the open book was The Red Book Liber Novus, a compilation of illustrations and writings by Carl Jung. “We’re looking forward to all you can tell us about the site.”  
“Señora Karabaldo,” Gurd smiled nodding.  
“And you are Ethan Dewar, the famous bullfighter,” she said enthusiastically, turning, looking up into his eyes the parrot scooting to the edge of her small shoulder as the butterfly whorl on the left crowded it.  
“Señora Karabaldo,” Ethan responded smiling a slight bow.  
“This is Nile,” Violetta said moving her eyes to the left turning her head so the parrot could have a more secure perch.  
“Howdie!”  
“Howdie, Nile,” Ethan and Gurd responded in unison grinning.  
“Is Nile related to Cleopatra or Caesar?” Gurd asked. He suddenly realized he had heard Sam mention Billie many times but was unaware of the depth of their friendship.  
“Yes, but I forget how. Billie would know. I’m sure she gave them to Sam. We have so many. Would you like one?” she asked raising her eyebrows hopefully.  
“Really don’t have the time to give one the attention it needs,” Gurd replied earnestly.  
“Ah, well,” she said sighing, carefully closing the book. “If you would care to put your laptop on the cart with the book, I’ll take it over to the printer. You can show us what you’ve discovered today after you’ve dined and mingled a little.”  
As they chatted Gurd grasped the door handle of the right, and Ethan grabbed the left of the mahogany double doors opening into the great room. Violetta wheeled in the cart.  
Gurd was immediately charmed by the décor and ambiance. It was similar in many ways to the homes he visited in the Middle East and northern Africa.  
Candles in the brass chandeliers, candelabras, and lanterns on the whitewashed walls provided the bright, soft light glowing on the beautiful mahogany beams and molding. Between the silk-upholstered benches lining the room stood luxurious Dwarf date palms and Elephant ear plants. Intriguing, polished fossils of leaves, fronds, shells, and small reptiles gleamed in wall niches. The striking blossoms of rare orchid plants in hand-painted Moroccan pots graced nearly every table. The fragrance of curry, the sound coming from the garden of a string quartet Gurd recognized as a Franz Liszt Hungarian rhapsody, the low murmur of conversation and the subdued laughter of children creating a mellow, cheerful atmosphere.  
Few people paused in their activities, or discourse to glance in their direction as though the opening and closing of the doors happened too frequently to be noticed. However, Billie was immediately at their side as Violetta maneuvered the cart between guests to a desk against the north wall.  
“If you’re like me,” Dama said smiling, leading them to an assortment of carved, Rosewood buffets laden with steaming food, plates, silverware, napkins, glasses, pitchers and bottles of beverages, and ice buckets, “spending a day working outdoors gives you a bigger appetite than usual.  
“Mai and Rosario,” she continued picking up a plate, eyes darting over the appetizers, selecting items, “are inspired, cheerful cooks. This morning they decided on the cuisine of Goan Indian. The most fun Sam and I had all day has been with them in the kitchen.”  
The food was delicious, and the supply inexhaustible as Cielo and Sueño, continually brought platters of puran poli flatbread, chamuças, Crab xec, rice arroz doce and sannas, and assorted fried fish and fish curry. During their meal, they wandered among the other guests in the room, and out on the colonnade and into the rose garden, having lively, introductory exchanges to the Liszt “Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two”.  
Gurd’s more extended conversations were with Cal Chang, a staid and robust doctor from China, health care providers, Kirti Singh and Ravindra Jadeja from India, and Margarita Oviedo, a Brazilian anthropologist. He was sincerely interested in these people, and their involvement in the establishment of the children’s clinic. Even while juggling a plate and wine glass he managed to keep physical contact with Ethan barefoot-to-barefoot.  
Gurd enjoyed chatting with several children. Hunkering down smiling encouragingly, he asked the little ones about their lives, pets, pastimes, and what they hoped to do when they got older. His enthusiasm was rewarded with spontaneous hugs and kisses. He charmed the teenagers with his genuine and sincere interest in their complicated lives. Unerringly, he roused their laughter at the analogies he attempted to make between his youth and their troubles and tribulations.  
When the number of people diminished noticeably later in the evening, Gurd and Ethan made their way to the laptop on the cart sitting in front of a series of long, low, and broad desks. The Red Book was open, a bookmark across one page.  
To the rhythm of one of Liszt’s more sedate rhapsodies, Gurd moved the laptop to a desk built into the wall, switching it on, keying in commands. Ethan explored the cables, connecting the computer to a printer with a wide format. By the time the printer ceased its low whirring, and Gurd was arranging the pages on the desk Dama, and Violetta accompanied by Nile, and a few people were gathering to see the results.  
“I believe this is only about two-thirds of the site,” Gurd smiled in thanks for the mug of coffee Billie brought him.  
“This is the north part bordered by cottonwoods,” he continued thoughtfully examining the composite image, sipping coffee. “Based on what I’ve seen on the surface I would say it dates to roughly about 1150 to 1225, a small community. The arrangement of the subsurface features appear to represent something unusual and unique, but it’s too early to tell.  
“This structure,” he said pointing to a distinct patch of wavy lines, “may have been a kiva about three and a half meters—three and a half yards in diameter.”  
“Curiously,” he said leaning closer, engrossed, “the walls appear to be stone masonry, unusual for a kiva this small. Several stones have been displaced from the west wall probably because of rainwater erosion down the slope from west to east. There’s an object where the sipapu would traditionally be located in the center, something placed over it to cover it. This thin, dense line extending from the wall to the center is a big cottonwood root. If it’s a kiva, then the floor would very probably be the lowest point of the site below the ground surface. The bottom of this structure is about three meters—eight or nine feet down.  
“Root,” said Nile.  
“Gurd,” Billie interrupted gesturing to the people listening and gazing at the image, “would you explain kiva and sipapu.”  
“Yes, of course,” he said taking another sip, setting the mug on a coaster. He glanced up to discover his impromptu presentation drawing an audience of about a dozen people.  
“The Puebloans of the Southwest,” Gurd said smiling, returning his eyes to examine the printouts, “believe their ancestors emerged from below the earth’s surface after taking refuge there from an ancient catastrophic event. Their mythology suggests it was a flood.  
“A kiva is a prehistoric, circular structure, “he said pointing at the printout, moving his finger around the perimeter of the kiva, “that was excavated into the earth for the performance of ceremonies and rituals. Some ceremonies may have been for worship, and others could’ve been for healing purposes. It had a roof, so the sacred activities were not open for public viewing. The sipapu, which is a small, round hole in the center of the kiva floor, represents, or symbolizes the exit from the ancient underground refuge.”  
While Gurd was delivering this explanation, Violetta rolled another cart into place next to him, spreading the architectural drawings. Billie brought in a second cart to put next to the first and removed the subsurface images from the desk to it so a comparison could be made. Space was created so more people could get a better view of the images and drawings. Several more guests joined the others.  
Gurd examined the architectural drawings, arranging them so both the images and the drawings were oriented with north at the top. Ethan leaned lightly against him, and Gurd raised his hand to grip the back of his neck in a casual, habitual manner.  
“Okay,” he said hesitantly, eyes wandering over the pages, sipping coffee, “these aren’t the same scale, but this proposed building on the north would be located at the western edge of the prehistoric features and the cottonwoods. The second structure might be outside the perimeter of the site. The biggest cottonwood will need to be removed at some point. That’s one of its roots extending into the kiva.  
“If some adjustments were made to this plan and some clever landscape architecture implemented,” he murmured thoughtfully as Ethan slid his arm around Gurd’s waist, “after excavation parts of the prehistoric structures could be restored, stabilized, and incorporated into the grounds of the clinic.”  
“That’s a lovely idea!” Violetta exclaimed enthusiastically looking up at Gurd in amazement, clasping her hands at her chin. “Including a prehistoric structure once used for healing in the grounds of a modern clinic where alternative healing methods will be used would be wonderful, maybe even inspirational!”  
“WOW!” Nile squawked.  
Violette glanced at her guests who nodded, smiling, murmuring in agreement. Nile flapping dodging her left butterfly whorl as she was turning her head looking around. Gurd sensed her enthusiasm and the passionate interest of the people for the clinic were as stirring, inspiring as his earlier exchange with Ethan about contributing to people’s futures. He turned smiling at Ethan.  
“Mr. Khase,” Cal Chang said pleasantly as the chatter quieted and Gurd and Ethan broke eye contact, “if I could change the subject from prehistory and construction may I ask if you have read The Red Book?”  
Gurd turned his attention to somber, dignified Chang. He noticed several people gazing down in the same direction Chang was looking. Glancing down, Gurd discovered they were all watching the stained fingertips of his left hand resting on one of Jung’s colorful mandalas on a page of the book. The image was about the same size as the lines on the print-out defining the kiva.  
“Yes,” Gurd responded with a self-conscious frown lifting his hand. “I’ve read it.”  
“Since many of us have gathered here to discuss and express our opinions on books about traditional healing and their addition to the proposed clinic library,” Chang said warmly, “we would be interested in your opinion of this book if it is not too much of an imposition.”  
“Well,” Gurd sighed, relaxing his grip on Ethan’s neck, unsure how to proceed with his response, “before I read The Red Book I’d read some of the body of work that influenced Jung, like Maeder and Flournoy. I’d also read a lot of Jung’s original writings as well as the interpretations and explanations of his work by later authors, and the writings of analysts who based their practice on his methods. So I guess I would say reading it was anticlimactic for me.  
“It was published many years after his death. It might well be invaluable as a reference for people who would consider learning his method of becoming a healer,” as an afterthought he added, “Perfecting his method would require years would involve more than most people are prepared to undertake.  
“The Red Book,” he continued, choosing his words carefully, realizing from the intent, earnest expressions of the people they appreciated his opinion, “is, in part, a compilation of Jung’s experiences with delving into the collective unconscious, the underworld, to understand himself, his psyche… and for other reasons. Truly understanding himself, becoming a more complete person. The complete person is better able to assist other people to get on the path to wellness, to becoming whole.  
“If you read his work you’ll discover Jung,” Gurd said pausing, hesitant, “believed he was going insane because of his journeys in the underworld. I believe the experience taxed his ability to adapt to the organization of a different, an alternate reality. In essence, the inhabitants, natural environment, and culture of the netherworld are the same but in no way does it appear the same. I’m sure in conjunction with that process of adjustment there was the need to develop trusting relationships in the underworld. Overwhelming challenges somewhat analogous to the first Europeans in the New World... a guide and interpreter is imperative in the beginning.”  
“Underworld,” said Nile.  
“Yes, Nile,” Violetta said. “Hush.”  
“I would surmise from Jung’s writings it’s a place full of the horrors and darkness,” Gurd said uneasy expressing his thoughts on this subject. He cocked his head to one side looking at the parrot. Niles cocked his head staring back. “It is also full of ecstasy and enlightenment. Many traditional healers claim they hear the musica universalis described by Pythagoras.  
“A confusing place of contradictions. Some creatures in the collective unconscious may symbolically represent reality, others may metaphorically represent delusion or some distortion of reality. Requiring a person to have extraordinary powers of perception even to know who to trust. Not everyone who can travel in the collective unconscious is talented, motivated, or courageous enough to journey into every region or dimension.  
“The Aztec believed there were thirteen levels in the underworld,” Gurd explained as more guests joined his fascinated audience. “The Norse believed there were nine separate dimensions including ours. The Mesopotamians, who invented writing, recorded a belief in at least two netherworlds. So Jung didn’t invent the collective unconscious, he just provided it with a new name acceptable to the modern scientific era—although the idea has been too controversial to be legitimized by the scientific community. One school of string theory has doubled the Aztec number to twenty-six dimensions—parallel universes.”  
“What is the collective unconscious?” asked Ravindra Jadeja.  
“One of the better analogies to explain the collective unconscious or transpersonal unconscious,” Gurd answered smiling at Ravindra lifting his hand to briefly finger the part in his hair, “appears in the works of one of the authors who discussed Jung’s works I believe. He described humanity as a plant with countless individual stems above ground. All the shoots and stems are connected, or linked by a single, common root system underground.”  
“Root underground,” Nile said.  
“Yes, Nile,” Gurd said, nodding, shifting on his feet, returning his hand to the back of Ethan’s neck meeting his gaze briefly. “The root system has the essentials required for the individual blades, flowers and stems above ground to survive including past experiences and potential future experiences, which may be useful in adapting to current changing circumstances above ground. That root system, the underworld, is there for all of us to access as Jung did, and authentic traditional healers do today.  
“People who are sincere about traditional healing can be successful if they have the incentive to learn a method of traveling to the collective unconscious. They also need the conviction, the passion for implementing the healing techniques they learn there,” Gurd said, confident, voice steady. “Some people do this through meditative yoga, others through chanting mantras, or fasting as some Plains Indians do on their vision quests or hallucinogens like peyote. Some people believe soma of the ancient Mesopotamians was a psychotropic gateway to the Netherworld.  
“Holy Sacrament!” Nile screeched.  
“Yes, Nile,” Violetta and Billie said in unison frowning, eyes darting a warning. “Hush!”  
“Some people use the method known as lucid dreaming,” Gurd continued with a grin and a nod at Nile as chuckles from the guests faded. “Jung developed and used a method he called ‘active imagination’ to enter and negotiate, or travel in the underworld.  
“While in the collective unconscious,” Gurd continued smiling slightly at the guests, whose interest was unwavering, “the traditional healer searches and finds remedies to use in curing, or healing individuals. Also in correcting social problems, like injustices causing imbalances in the social equilibrium of the communities. In ancient times correcting imbalances in the environmental equilibrium was an equally big issue believed to be within the power of a traditional healer.”  
Gurd paused glancing at Ethan. He was a little disconcerted to see Ethan staring at him with the same rapt attention as the others.  
“From an anthropologist’s perspective, one way to describe the healer’s viewpoint is he, or she, sees the individual as the microcosm, the culture in which the person lives as a mesocosm and the environment, or Mother Nature, as the macrocosm. Traditional people currently believe, and ancient peoples probably believed their shaman had the power to influence all three.”  
“Is it your opinion as an anthropologist and someone who has traveled widely among traditional cultures,” asked Kirti Singh in her clipped accent, “that Jung was the modern, educated equivalent of a prehistoric or present-day traditional shaman as many have suggested?”  
“I like to use ‘traditional healer’. The term shaman has become heavily stigmatized in some circles, and dramatically glamorized in others, but, my answer is yes,” Gurd replied emphatically.  
“Prehistoric shamans had the same knowledge, and were as effective and successful at curing as Jung?” Margarita Oviedo asked.  
“Yes,” Gurd responded, eyes sparkling charmingly, a flash of his perfect teeth. “In some respects more successful than Jung.”  
“Would you explain?” asked Ravindra as a second African Grey fluttered down landing on Billie’s shoulder.  
“As with some current traditional cultures in Africa, Siberia, and Amazonia, early prehistoric ethnic groups usually consisted of several small communities. They were distributed widely over the landscape, but they shared common beliefs and values,” Gurd said, fully in lecture mode lightly rubbing his thumb along Ethan’s neck. “The traditional healers in those cultures were then, and are responsible today not only for the health of the individual—the microcosm—but ultimately for the health of the entire community as an entity in itself—the mesocosm.”  
“Africa!” Nile screeched.  
“Africa,” the second parrot calmly responded. “Hush, Nile!”  
“The healer was charged with curing individual illnesses,” Gurd continued with a smile although he was felt like he was lecturing in a classroom rather than sharing with friends, “as well as maintaining the stability and harmony of the community by reducing internal conflicts. Conflicts, or disagreements threatening the unity necessary for the group to remain together and survive. Correcting an injustice, restoring justice in a community is analogous to healing an individual of disease, or a wound, and restoring health,” he said glancing down at the book and the printout.  
“Is the Trickster, the shape-changing character appearing in mythology nearly universally around the world, a shaman?” asked Chang glancing at a third and fourth parrot climbing with beak and claw up chairs and electrical cables behind Gurd.  
“No,” Gurd responded, grinning, shaking his head, the dark hair flicking across his forehead.  
“But they are equivalent in many ways,” Gurd said moderating his manner, more casual, happy for the topic shift. “Most people today have no concept of how profoundly the men fulfilling those two roles, Shaman and Trickster, in traditional cultures over millennia, possibly 200,000 years, or more, shaped the world we live in today. Most of us have no idea of the depth of the meaning, the value of their contributions to our present world by their acts of healing individuals, and restoring equilibrium to societies, or cultures over thousands of years. Modern religions have effectively eliminated the value of those two prehistoric icons, the Shaman and the Trickster, from our past, and discredit those who are alive today.  
“The Trickster is a less ancient tradition than the shaman. The Trickster originated when later cultures developed into a level of complexity requiring a more complicated and expansive mythology than needed for the early shamanistic-animistic societies,” Gurd said glancing at Ethan who seemed the most fascinated member of his audience.  
Gurd noticed the third and fourth parrots strolling across the desk built into the wall. They both seemed intensely interested in the sound of his voice, eyeing Gurd steadily.  
“The Trickster and the shaman are traditional figures with entirely different characters,” Gurd said, turning back to his growing audience, “but both are considered Culture Heroes. Each in his way helps to maintain cultural equilibrium when that balance is threatened.  
“The shaman is a compassionate human, an institutionalist who is perceived to work inside the boundaries of a culture,” Gurd said hoping his fading voice, shifting posture conveyed the correct tone indicating he would like his place at center stage to end. He was aware he held the attention of everyone in the room. Even the viola and cello players had ceased to play and were listening at the colonnade door.  
“The Trickster is an insurrectionist who is strictly mythological, or supernatural. He is perceived as an individual outside the borders of a culture even though he can operate inside those cultures. His supernatural abilities even enable him to come back to life after he dies. His methods are often murderous, cruel, and humiliating,” Gurd’s hand tightened on Ethan’s neck.  
“Somebody’s been bad,” Nile said.  
“Hush, Nile!” the second parrot said, the third and fourth parrots squawking in unison.  
“Unlike the Shaman, The Trickster is amoral has no real values. He just likes to upset the order of things for the fun of it,” Gurd concluded.  
Gurd felt relief as Billie quietly began to gather the printouts and roll up the architectural drawings as he was finishing. Taking the hint, the others expressed their admiration and appreciation for Gurd’s explanations. Gurd, Ethan, and Billie gradually worked their way to the doors, engaging in brief exchanges with the other guests along the way. The quartet returned to the courtyard striking up yet another Liszt rhapsody.  
“Holy Sacrament!” Nile screeched fluttering from Violetta’s shoulder.  
The floor suddenly rose gently, perceptibly then fell abruptly and a loud BANG! sounded in the distance. People quickly began to file into the courtyard murmuring in apprehension. Gurd swiftly opened the doors to the foyer, ran up to the second floor of the south tower, scooped Sam from the bed. Wrapping the sheet around his limp body, Ethan draped a hem over the bruised side of his face and with Flora at his heels met Ethan and Billie outside the open front doors.  
They hurried out and around to the far side of the fountain. There were no aftershocks, but the earth seemed to grumble with tension while they waited. Gurd on one knee, cradled the dozing Sam, the left side of his face concealed by the sheet.  
Accompanied by a strolling parrot, Ethan and Dama paced slowly together speaking in low voices. Gurd wondered at how quickly the two had become such intimate friends. He was sure he heard Ethan address Dama as Granny.  
The twins emerged to stroll gazing up at the walls to identify any damage. Other guests followed to enjoy the sight of the stars and the fountain. Gurd explained to all those concerned Sam was just a heavy sleeper.  
“He is a beautiful man,” Ravindra commented while contemplating Sam’s face.  
Gurd nodded. Feeling inexplicable desire, he gazed down at Sam’s bruised, handsome, serene countenance.

Chapter Twenty-Eight  
Blackface and Bandages

Satisfied Flora was nestled contentedly with Sam, Gurd kissed them. Returning to the north tower bedroom, he and Ethan crossed the broad foyer without encountering anyone. Quietly padding up the stairs and closing the bedroom door, they kissed gently, relaxed. Tunics and trousers falling to the floor erections heavy.  
Their movement over the bed a silent, sensuous wrestling match. An expression of passion in their language of muscles and tendons, skin gliding on skin, heart beating against heart. Searching to seize and hold, caressing lips and gasping breath seeking to capture and hold the essence of the other.  
Heart thumping, Gurd surrendered, supine, pinned flat on his back his arms held down Ethan sitting on his waist. He deeply inhaled Ethan’s scent trying to relax hoping to prevent the flashback.  
“Have you ever sexually abused anyone?” Ethan panting releasing the grip on Gurd’s right arm, Gurd’s hand snapping up to grab the back of Ethan’s neck.  
“Ethan!” Gurd gasped, fighting the urge to push Ethan away, to get up and leave.  
“Yes!” Gurd hissed between clenched teeth.  
“How many?”  
“Please stop, Ethan!” Gurd rasping, eyes closed tight, grappling with his decision to trust Ethan with all the terrible secrets of his life.  
“Two!” rumbling from his heaving chest, up into his choking throat escaping between his grinding teeth.  
“Why did you do it?” Ethan rasping through his labored breathing.  
“Ethan! Please stop… berserker,” tripping over his words, gasping glaring up at Ethan, “alternate state of consciousness… warrior-soldier-war-rape… the only way I can explain it.”  
“Men?”  
“Yes, men!” eyes flaring, face red, head straining up Gurd hissed between breaths voice rising, falling, a flood of words, cathartic, purging deep regrets. “That’s what I’m saying… guys who attacked me when I was alone… intending to abduct, ransom me I assumed. I couldn’t let them put my parents through that hell, Ethan, understand? I saw it as another battle in a war.  
“Once in Hong Kong, once in Tokyo,” growling, lips twisting, pulse in his neck pounding. “Both big guys armed with sophisticated stuff. Hired guys! Professionals! I disabled them, tied them with the restraints they intended for me. I abused them. I considered killing them, slitting their throats, hanging them out a window by their feet Mussolini-style. That’s how much rage possessed me, Ethan!  
“I didn’t,” Gurd’s voice hoarse, head falling back on the bed. “I didn’t want to kill anymore so… I abused them, humiliated them, came close to… mutilating them,” Gurd exhaled explosively, squeezing his eyes shut face contorted. “The only reason I didn’t was because they revealed who had sent them and why. Russians! They wanted my father’s files the people who paid them were planning to exchange me for my father’s files! My dad knows who has what in antiquities… stolen or missing gems from India, sacred texts from Europe and the Middle East… codices from pre-Columbia America… you name it.  
“How do you think those guys felt—”  
“I don’t care how—”  
“How do you think Sam feels?” Ethan rasping glaring nose-to-nose with Gurd.  
“Sam was raped?!” Gurd grasp, breathless as from a heavy blow to the stomach. Face blank in disbelief, sensations crumbling into chilling numbness. “Somebody raped my Sam?  
“I’ll kill—” voice cold and brittle breaking, restraining a scream, tears.  
“No, you won’t, Gurd,” Ethan whispering voice firm jaw clenching. Embracing Gurd with arms and legs attempting to quell, suppress the earthquake of emotions wracking him.  
“You know if you kill again, you’ll kill yourself, Hurdy Gurdy,” Ethan’s voice thick, hoarse.  
#  
Hours later, confident Gurd was sleeping quietly, Ethan opened the window on the north side of the room. He slowly, ceremoniously stripped, lowered the leather strap with the jade locket down over his head. He strapped the bag of golden pellets and ocarina around his waist. Eagerly breathing in the warm night air fragrant with sage and juniper tainted with the scent of smoke, Ethan scrutinized the area then assumed the yoga pose, Warrior.  
Ethan didn’t remain in the Netherworld long, returning abruptly. His green eyes snapped wide in alarm. He removed the pellet-bag and locket quickly. The mirror might work on two but not three. He frantically searched for and applied black-face, red around his mouth to look like fangs beard glistening dripping blood.  
Ethan quietly removed the window screen pulling it inside. He peered around at the outside walls as he tied a black bandanna biker-style over his hair. He crawled over the window ledge, gripping the drain pipe extending from the roof, climbing down to the ground. Naked he slipped into the night looking for the three men creeping toward the house. In the Netherworld, they were powerful White-eye centaurs.  
#  
I decided to limp with Flora along the footpath extending along the river from the hacienda to the south end of the property where Gurd and Ethan were working. I was still feeling angry, frustrated, sore from the assault, and groggy from the sedative, but my bruised ribs didn’t hurt as much when I breathed. Billie and I had wrapped my twisted wrist and sprained ankle, and bandaged the dark swelling around the eye but I couldn’t hide the red cornea or puffy, split lip.  
I gingerly inhaled the sweetness of the sagebrush and pinyon, the faint scent of the daylilies behind their stone border on the right of the path bobbing in the river breeze under the white heat of the sun. Despite the huge breakfast, I munched from my bag of roasted almonds, raisins, and chocolate chips things that didn’t interest Flora.  
I frequently paused to let Flora investigate the wild smells off in the brush and cactus beyond the lilies, but when she perked her ears toward the river on the left, I was immediately wary. This stretch of the river wasn’t an area favored for canoeing, fishing, or other recreational activity attracting people.  
I was alarmed, but oddly unsurprised by the sight of the human body snagged in the mesquite and sagebrush leaning from the bank over the boulders at the river’s edge. I ordered Flora to sit, stripping, wading into the calmly rolling water, straining to disentangle the body. I got it free, flipping it over to see the face. This move caused me pain and more than a little shock as I recognized the man. His image appeared on local television news several times recently in connection with the strange deaths on the Lagash property.  
Watching the body float away, I made my way back to the stony shore, sitting next to Flora, gazing at the few fleecy, white clouds, letting the sun dry me. I removed the soggy bandages. I held the Om-Ganesha pendant in my hands considering the death of the man in the river, Joe Blacksmith, Chief of Cimarron Security Services, Albuquerque, New Mexico. I mulled over the strange deaths on the Lagash property, the wildfire, and the earthquake Billie said seemed like it was centered under the Hacienda last night. I thought about her recent, uncharacteristic unease and the fresh smile on Gurd’s face.  
I understood the sense of defeat and guilt Gurd suffered over the death of Thamade, and no one more than I had endured his nightmares, the emotional and mental anguish symptomatic of his PTSD. I loved Gurd and had done everything in my power to alleviate his grief and turmoil in the past ten years. I could see he and Ethan were in love and Ethan may have accomplished in a few days more than I had in ten years. Feeling bitter-sweet at Gurd experiencing, expressing love. My love for Ethan deepening as I gratefully watched the changes yet realizing how dangerous he was. The price Gurd might have to pay for love. I could not accept the possibility Gurd’s path could lead to his incarceration because of his potential guilt-by-association with Ethan.  
Still feeling unfocused, I was suddenly anxious and fearful realizing the body would float by Gurd and Ethan. I stood, dressing, and limped as rapidly as I could down the path with Flora trotting ahead. A ten-minute hike brought me within range of Ethan playing the “Sleeping Beauty Waltz” from the Tchaikovsky ballet.  
I tried to reduce the pace to a casual stroll concealing my limp, but Flora got wind of Gurd and wouldn’t slow down. I barked an order at her, and she turned cringing. Realizing how harsh I sounded, I leaned down reassuring her, looking up, I saw Gurd naked except for his boots and bandanna around his head striding toward us. He tanned beautifully and his indigo eyes seemed to pale into sky blue in the summer light.  
“Hey, girl,” Gurd said crouching to pet Flora, reaching to hold my hand. He spat khat into the river—an act shocking to any Indian. He gazed up into my eyes as though searching to see if I was the same man he had known for ten years.  
“Ethan told me. Will you be okay?” Gurd asked softly, face heavy with worry. His tearful concern wrenching my heart. He rose from the crouch, holding me gently, tenderly hugging me, tangling his fingers in my hair. I deeply inhaled the scent of his breath, the fragrance of his sweat. “I’m so sorry, so angry. You know I’ll always love you, Sāman. Did Dama cut your hair?”  
“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” sighing, shoulders slumping against his chest. I bowed my head to his fingers in my hair, feeling the beat of his heart savoring the tenderness I had never before sensed in him. “Yeah, she cut it. I’m tired of America, Gurdjieff. I think I want to go back to India.”  
“What?” rasping pulling away from him slightly, looking into his eyes I was unsure I’d heard what Gurd said. Uncertain he realized what he’d said. Shocked to his the erection.  
“She cut it too short. There’s no wave in it when it’s this short. Your parents’ effort to bring you here would be for nothing?” Gurd asked holding my shoulders, looking into my eyes, down at my mother’s pendant. He turned to shout. “Would you shut that program down, Ethan?”  
“What’s up?” Ethan yelled, nude running through the Black-eyed Susan and butterflies down the slope moments later.  
“Samwise thinks he wants to go back to India,” Gurd shouted back frowning down at his erection dwindling as though he hadn’t realized his arousal.  
“Hey! Wow!” Ethan exclaimed excitedly. “Can I go with?”  
“Can you stop being ridiculous?” Gurd said impatient, upset as Ethan came to a stumbling, arm-flailing halt, unsettling his straw hat.  
“Hey, good question,” Ethan replied grinning, reaching down to pet Flora with one hand, adjusting his hat with the other, “I’m a clown. Ridiculous is my default whatever.”  
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Gurd said gently releasing me. “I need to turn off the equipment.”  
“What did you do last night, honey-buddy?” whispering when I thought Gurd was beyond hearing, struggling to remain in the present moment, not to linger on Gurd’s assertion of love, his first.  
“Hey?” Ethan responded, raising his eyebrows lips pursing.  
“Stop being ridiculous, Ethan,” affectionately, exasperated, attempting to conceal my sudden desperation, concern. “You know what I mean. I found a body in the river on my way down here.”  
“What? One?”  
“How many more bodies should I have found? Do you know who he is? I’m guessing neither of you saw it float downriver,” feeling my cheeks flush hot.  
“Yes, I know who he was, and yes, I saw it, but Gurd was occupied when it went by,” Ethan explained quietly, hastily, glancing after Gurd. “Two more, but I was hoping all three would float well downriver before they were discovered.”  
“Murder, honey-buddy?” searchingly, looking into his eyes.  
“Hardly! Self-defense! They came looking for me, and what’s worse my guys have moved Carousel into old underground San Francisco to hide from the Lagash spies snooping around my property,” Ethan huffed, pointing to several abrasions and bruises just starting to form difficult to see under his hairy stomach, chest and arms.  
“Okay! Stop! He’s coming back. Has he noticed those?” nodding at the injuries noting his ribs must be bruised, wiping sweat from my brow silently cursing the heat.  
“No,” Ethan replied.  
“The splint on your fingers?” whispering, concerned, muddled.  
“He used stuff from the company first aid kit,” Ethan answered impatiently jerking his bandaged left hand in a dismissive gesture. “He thinks it happened during our wrestling last night when I fell on my back with my hand behind me.”  
“You’re lying to him now, honey-bud? Do you realize how much you are risking his life and freedom, his future by killing all these people while you’re with him?” blurting realizing I sounded silly flipping from accusing Ethan of a little lie to rebuking him for seriously jeopardizing Gurd’s life. The possibility Gurd was beginning to understand he loved me filled me with a confusing sense of euphoria and heartache clouding rational discourse.  
“Help me out here, Sam, don’t make the sailing tougher. Losing Carousel will be like losing my Self, my life,” Ethan replied showing the first signs of temper eyes flaring wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He grabbed me, hugging me hard whispering before gently releasing me, “I need you to stay calm. If you just stay calm, it would help me keep on course. Sorry, I can’t explain it better than that. Trust me, you already know too much. The only way I can keep down the risks to you and Gurd is if you trust me to handle things… and things are happening too fast for planning… I have to deal with them as they come.”  
“I’m sorry,” calmer as Gurd was walking quickly toward the riverbank pulling on a T-shirt, cargo shorts in one hand with Flora at his heels. I dabbled my bandanna at my torn lip seeping blood hoping my expression of confused contrition was successful in concealing my chaotic, sluggish state of mind.  
“I should’ve given more thought to what I was saying,” attempting a smile eyes holding Gurd’s trying not to look or act confused, the pathetic, little, needy guy in the bunch. “Billie’s sedative has left me in a fog. Please finish your work, maybe there’s something I can help you with to take my mind off things.”  
“Well,” Gurd said slipping into his shorts taking my hand, avoiding the bruised wrist, glancing around, pausing to adjust the fresh khat leaves in his cheek, “I was thinking of covering the last ten meters between here and the property line, but I haven’t seen anything on the screen or the surface for the two last meters. High water levels hitting that outcrop probably washed everything away over the years on the south end. So let’s pack up and get on the road.”  
Dama, who must have heard the creaking of the wagon and rattling of the tack, greeted us at the fountain where the horses sucked greedily at the water. As Señora Karabaldo emerged from the hacienda to speak with Gurd, and Ethan was transferring the equipment from the wagon to the Jeep, I chatted with Dama. She insisted I remain with her for another day since my injuries wouldn’t permit me to effectively handle animals at the clinic.  
Gurd held me for a long moment seemingly reluctant to leave. He kissed me tenderly on my right cheek briefly caressing my short hair. I held back my tears.

Chapter Twenty-Nine  
Joints and Stunts

Gurd watched Ethan sitting in the middle of the back seat of the Jeep Cherokee on the trip to Albuquerque almost as much as he watched the road. He spent the entire time with his devices laid out around him texting, sending e-mails, reading his messages, and listening to people on the phones. He seldom said much to anyone on the other end of the line. Flora sat on the floor between his legs a paw resting on the console between the bucket seats.  
Gurd rubbed Flora’s head and neck, watching Ethan’s face in the rearview mirror. He was grateful Ethan seemed to understand any discussion about their conversation of the previous night needed to wait. He felt too much was happening too quickly in his life, and he needed time to digest it all.  
As they drove past the area, Ethan noticed with surprise the bulldozers and backhoes digging and scraping earth on the east side of Highway 25 near the archaeological excavations. Gazing at the piles of dirt, uprooted sagebrush, and pinyon, he listened to Gurd explaining preliminary work could be accomplished at the site of the Lagash church without disturbing the archaeological site farther to the east.  
“I need to drop by the arena this afternoon,” Ethan said absentmindedly as they entered northern Albuquerque, “for a little practice. You can drop me off around two. Stay if you don’t have things to do.”  
“Live practice with a bull?” Gurd responded.  
“Yep,” Ethan answered smiling bringing his focus back onto Gurd. “Probably bulls. May last an hour or so. Sponsor request. Might just be for new promotional stuff. Everyone’s seen clips of my old arena antics a hundred times. I’m the star of a DVD on live-rodeo clown acts.”  
“Are you in the rodeo here on the Fourth of July?” Gurd asked eyes squinting.  
“Gurd, I thought you knew,” Ethan replied perplexed, grinning, brow crinkling. “Most of the people at the bar knew. I’m only there on Monday night, The Fourth, for the short go, not the whole weekend, the best for last!  
“Hey, are you growing a beard?” Ethan asked reaching forward to rub Gurd’s stubble with his right hand. “It’s really sexy. Can we get out in the woods and get naked for a while? There’s a nice stretch of forest right back there back up against the hills.”  
“Quit,” Gurd said impatiently attempting to remove Ethan’s hand then stopped himself.  
“Ethan,” Gurd said sighing returning his hand to the steering wheel, “you’re exasperating.”  
“First you say I’m ludicrous, then you say I’m ridiculous,” Ethan said sighing ‘Sad’ and ‘Despondent’ crowding his features, “and now I’m exasperating. Doesn’t sound like the words of a man in love.”  
“And what would a man in love say,” asked Gurd frowning blasting the horn at the car swerving into his lane.  
“Something with depth and meaning,” Ethan immediately responded softly, lovingly, lowering his hand to cover Gurd’s heart, “like William Blake’s ‘Love seeketh not itself to please nor for itself hath any care but for another gives its ease and builds a heaven in hell’s despair’. I suppose those are appropriate words for a man in the Romantic Age in England. Today a poet or rapper would say ‘Love be antidote to Hell on Earth’.”  
Gurd nodded in response but made no reply. A sudden stillness gripped him in that instant when it occurred to him what he’d said while embracing Sam on the river earlier in the day what he’d felt stirring in his heart. He realized Sam’s love had been an antidote to Gurd’s hell on earth for the past ten years. Ethan abruptly and loudly brought all Gurd’s thoughts of love to an end.  
“Hey!” he yelled, Flora barked. “Let’s stop at that mall. We need to get a new computer to program for your dissertation algorithm. And some vicious protection against espionage. Turn on the radio, Gurd. Let’s see if the Las Conchas fire is contained.”  
#  
Arriving at the office just before noon, Gurd introduced Ethan to Flora’s two sisters, Fauna and Merriweather, in the front yard. Ethan endured a good deal of suspicious sniffing and cautious licking on the walk, juggling the computer, box of chocolates, and bouquets he purchased, complimenting Gurd on the antique appearance of the building, the fountain, and sphinx.  
They let the dogs into the backyard before climbing the outdoor stairs between the garage and house. Ethan thought the apartment looked like it was furnished from an office supply store as he arranged the flowers in vases. The tables, sofa, and chairs were appropriate for a waiting room outside an executive office, and the dining set looked more suited to a small conference room. The plants, sculptures, and framed posters on the walls only marginally softened the sterile appearance, the generally bland, earth-tone color scheme.  
Ethan decided to forego the midday meal, preparing for his arena practice with yoga and meditation. Gurd was dozing on the sofa before Ethan settled into his pose. About forty-five minutes later, hearing Gurd take short, deep breaths, Ethan started a rapid emergence from his meditation.  
Padding over to the sofa, Ethan knelt gently placing his left hand on Gurd’s brow. Gurd took a sharp breath and woke slowly peacefully. When he was fully awake, he took a deep breath, and with his hand pulled Ethan’s injured hand down to kiss the palm.  
“Can you take me to the arena now? Help me get this splint off. I can’t go in there like this. Gotta joint rolled and ready?”  
#  
“Take my shirt, pants, and sandals,” Ethan said hurriedly opening the door to the shower room at the arena, removing his trousers and boxers. “Put on my vest and run like the devil to the Jeep. Take some clothes from my pack and change into them, and bring me something to wear. Anything.”  
“Run like the devil?” Gurd asked, his breath taken away at the sight of the bruises on Ethan’s body.  
“Hurdy Gurdy!”  
“Okay! But you’ll have to let go of my hand!”  
“No questions,” Ethan said in an excited, rasping voice, grabbing his sides as though he was in pain from the apparent beating from the bulls in the arena, holding out his red boxer shorts, “Now put these over your head.”  
“Ethan? Are you all right?” Gurd asked concerned, brows knitting, head tilting forward.  
“You can find out when you get back. Run! Go!” Ethan winced at the pain in his fingers and ribs, pulling the boxers over Gurd’s head, turning him toward the door. “And yell something like ‘I’m okay! I’m okay!’ while you’re on the way, and wave your arms around. Okay? Go!”  
#  
For two hours after his dramatic performance with six consecutive bulls in the ring where the earth jolted twice, Ethan managed to avoid the standard, post-performance examination by a medic. His first avoidance ploy was claiming he needed a shower because the grease paint sweating from his forehead was stinging his eyes.  
To the medic’s shock minutes later, Ethan stepped out of the shower, Wee Clown erect in costume humming “Singing in the Rain”. Toweling dry, Ethan quietly demanded the presence of his lawyer during the examination, demanding they take photographs and videos. Ethan grinned as the medic hurriedly turned to leave the room in a huff declaring he needed to hunt down any administration personnel on the premises with authority, and equipment to meet his demands.  
“What’s wrong with him?” Gurd asked eyebrows cocked frowning in concern arms full brushing through the door past the medic.  
“Ethan!’’ Gurd rolled his eyes facing the ceiling when Ethan turned to reveal Wee Clown in costume. Lowering and shaking his head, Gurd tossed the change of clothes at Ethan.  
“Quick!” Ethan whispered fumbling with the little costume, pulling on the clothes, grabbing, holding Gurd’s hand. “We gotta get over to the clinic, but we gotta go the long way, so no one sees us.”  
#  
“Howdy, Ethan,” a tall, lanky, sweating cowboy peering down from his perch on the fence in the blast from the big stock-fans greeted them with some suspicion a half-hour later. “I’ve been hearing some funny things about you for the last hour. I mean funnier than usual. Mind if I asked what you’re doing in with the steers.”  
“Hey, Rick,” Ethan replied grinning, squeezing Gurd’s hand. “I’m thinking about taking up steer wrestling. Gurd here is gonna be my hazer. Chester’s retired, getting old, stiff in the joints.”  
“Well, Ethan,” Rick grinned shaking his head rubbing his glistening neck with a bandanna. “Doc’s done put out an APB on you, so you better get on over to the clinic before someone wrestles you down and puts you in a funny-suit.”  
“Thanks for the warning,” Ethan nodded, smiling, pulling Gurd.  
“Hey, Ethan,” a man greeted them with a surprised expression a half-hour later as Ethan was leading Gurd through a pen of panting roping-calves. “Doc is looking for you.”  
“Is he? He say why, Joe?” Ethan asked innocently canting his head to one side eyebrows rising nearly to the brim of his hat mouth slightly open.  
“He didn’t say,” Joe replied cramming his hat hard on his head to keep the breeze from the fans blowing it off grinning, staring into Ethan’s eyes in a searching manner. “But I was talking to Billy Don Rover over at the Chuck Wagon before I saw Doc a while back and Billy Don said you’d gone plum crazy. You ain’t crazy, are you, Ethan? I have to ask because no one can ever tell. What’re you doing in the calf pen? Calves and guys ain’t supposed to mix after hours.”  
“I’m thinking of taking up calf roping,” Ethan shrugged looking at Gurd, who coughed and spat khat.  
“Just a few minutes ago I ran into Jay Winslow, and he said you’d died, fell down dead the moment you walked out of the ring from the beating you took from the bulls,” Joe continued his scrutiny. “People are saying you’d have to be the best stunt man in the world to have lived through what you did out there.”  
“Thanks, Joe. We better hurry on over to the clinic,” Ethan said tugging Gurd after him.  
“He’s right,” Gurd whispered climbing the fence, jumping to the ground, and strolling at Ethan’s side watching him. “Those were some pretty spectacular moves back in the arena. From where I was behind the chutes I could see the last three bulls never touched you. The people in the stands might’ve seen it differently.”  
“Never touched me?” Ethan whispered, frowning trying to remember the last three bulls just as he’d tried to remember swinging on a chandelier in a bar or gymnastics in a cottonwood over the Pecos River. “Where’d you think these bruises came from?”  
“Ethan Dewar,” the doctor shouted when Ethan and Gurd walked into the clinic double-wide trailer, “what the hell is going on? What about lawyers?”  
“I’m sorry,” Ethan responded hanging his head contritely muttering, “I guess I just suffered an anxiety attack.”

Chapter Thirty  
Alternate States and Mass Psychogenic Disorder

At Glans Waterin’ Hole, Ethan and Gurd ate two large pizzas and half a can of almonds. Sipping water, Ethan shot pool by himself while Gurd drank coffee and watched televised news. Standing between Eric and Eduardo, Gurd soberly contemplated the latest updates on the drought, the forest fire, the effects of the earthquake centered south of Santa Fe the previous night, and the aftershocks that day in Albuquerque. These reports were followed by the latest developments in the deaths of Elizardo and the two Cimarron Services men on the Lagash property.  
Gurd hung his head and rubbed his face while listening to the latest details on the two murdered, Air Force instructors identified as Roger Wayne Hudson and John William Packer, and the breaking report concerning the three bodies found today in the Pecos River. The latest three victims were identified as the chief of operations for Cimarron Services, Joe Blacksmith, and two of his men.  
“Ain’t that somethin’,” Eduardo commented shaking his head turning his gaze to Eric and Gurd. “The last five victims were brutally battered, blows to the throat, or twisted necks considered the cause of death. That Joe Blacksmith was a big, mean ex-Marine. There’s something darned mysterious goin’ on.”  
The video of Ethan’s performance in the arena earlier that day played once during the sports reporting, and again while the news program signed off. Each time Gurd turned to watch Ethan intently scrutinizing the action on the screen.  
Mr. Phan lowered the volume of the TV flipping the switch to turn on the jukebox. “Freedom! ‘90” by George Michaels immediately gripping the room. Patrons poured in to celebrate happy hour.  
“Lord,” Eduardo said in a low voice scratching his beard, surreptitiously glancing around, sipping beer, “there’s more Feds in Albuquerque than there is in Washington D. C. I bet the Special Investigation Division of The New Mexico State Police are probably creeping among us as we speak.  
“Old Lagash is gonna end up in jail, and some guys in the Air Force are gonna see courts-martial,” Eduardo said animated, eyes wide voice rising, voice falling eyes squinting. “Those wildcat oil companies Lagash owns, and the Bureau of Land Management that issues their permits to drill, and timber companies he’s invested in, and the Department of Agriculture that regulates the lumberjacks are gonna catch some kind of hell before all the dust settles. Justice, the long arm of the law is descending on New Mexico!”  
“That’s not the worst of it,” Eric said frowning and shaking his head. “The FBI is sharing with the CIA about the investigation into connections between Cimarron Security Services and the network Lagash set up while in the Middle East. War profiteering in the form of illegal arms sales. They’re looking into the possibility the coffers of Lagash’s megachurch are just another money-laundering scheme for the funds to buy those arms. Filthy rich, former US senator, William Dumuntzi is considered a target of that investigation. That’s likely to be the straw breaking the old senator’s back.”  
“Have the cops, or the Feds talked to you yet?” Lifting his chin arching his eyebrows, Eric asked turning to Gurd, surprised at the question shaking his head. “They’ve been questioning everyone here Monday when those two Air Force boys were in. You and Dewar are on their list.”  
“I’m a little sore, and things are getting uncomfortably crowded,” said Ethan, suddenly pressing his body against Gurd, glancing over his shoulder.  
“Mr. Phan, could I buy that unopened bottle of Amaretto?” Ethan shouted over Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” laying money on the counter. The old man managed to retrieve the Amaretto from the other bottles clinking and rattling from another aftershock.  
“Can we stay at your office apartment tonight?” Ethan asked settling into the Jeep gingerly trying to hide his pain. “I like it there with the dogs. It’s cozy. Makes me feel safe.”  
“Sure,” Gurd said smiling, taking a half-smoked, hashish joint from the covered ashtray, lighting it, “whatever you like.”  
“I’ll open the gate,” Ethan said minutes later as they pulled up in front of the office, exhaling the hashish smoke and coughing ribs aching. “What’s the lock code?”  
“Pound, nine, two, two, nine, seven, pound,” Gurd replied stuffing the joint into the ashtray, closing the cover powering closed the sunroof.  
“The same for the garage?” Ethan asked clearing his throat adjusting his glasses.  
“Same for the house security system and the garage, but I won’t put the Jeep in there. It’s used as a laboratory,” Gurd replied.  
“Where are the dogs?” Ethan asked, opening the Jeep door.  
“Derrick usually puts them in the backyard after he takes them out for their evening run,” Gurd answered. “He does that in the morning too. They have a plastic, kiddie pool filled with water back there.”  
“They don’t bark when they hear a car drive in here?”  
“They never bark at the sound of this Jeep. Sometimes at the condo, I can’t sleep so I come over here to work at odd hours. I trained them not to bark because the sound disturbs the neighbors.”  
“I didn’t notice that surveillance camera last time,” Ethan said nodding at the device under the eaves of the apartment. “This doesn’t look like a neighborhood with a crime problem.”  
“No, not much crime around here,” Gurd said shutting the Jeep door, glancing over at the fountain, up at the camera. “It’s mostly for looks, Ethan, seldom loaded. Some of our clients send us samples for analysis. To them the samples are priceless. The fence, dogs, and surveillance, prominent on our website, give them a sense of security.”  
#  
“Here’s a riddle for you,” Ethan said softly as they stripped to their shorts settling on the bed later in the evening amid the fragrance of roses and stargazer lilies he brought that afternoon.  
“Riddles excite the intellect and stimulate consciousness, broadens the mind.”  
“Okay,” Gurd replied, comfortable, holding Ethan close heads resting on a pillow.  
“What is the oldest recurring nightmare recorded in a northern European epic poem. Standard, required reading for millions of students, and what did the nightmare symbolize?” Ethan held Gurd tight, locking eyes.  
“No idea,” Gurd replied frowning lips twisting. “Don’t have a traditional education.”  
“In the epic poem Beowulf,” Ethan said solemnly, “the monster Grendel symbolizes the nightmares destroying, figuratively speaking consuming the king’s warriors, nightmares ruinous to an ancient kingdom.”  
“Okay, yeah, Beowulf,” Gurd holding his gaze.  
“Who sent the nightmares, symbolized by Grendel, into the night to consume the lives of all those sleeping warriors in the king’s hall? The monster consumed the lives. That he devoured the bodies is a figure of speech, a kenning, in old Norse,” Ethan asked with a gentle kiss.  
“Grendel’s mother sent him,” Gurd replied eyes searching.  
“Where did she live—the murky mere—being a Norse kenning for what? Who went there to kill her, and what was he?”  
“She lived in the collective unconscious, the Netherworld,” Gurd’s eyes wide blinking, “so Beowulf, who killed her, was a shaman, a Norse traditional healer. Where did you come up with that?”  
“Where do you think I came up with that?” Ethan asked calmly, his gaze level, intent.  
“Now to the point of the riddle,” Ethan pausing for another brief kiss. “In the Netherworld what did Grendel’s mother symbolize? Remember the context of constant conflict and warfare in Europe during the period the hero, Beowulf, was supposed to have lived. The time after the Roman Empire fell.”  
“The mother embodies, represents the post-traumatic stress disorder of the king’s warriors, a collective, or mass-PTSD experience,” Gurd sighed closing his eyes. “All the soldiers were experiencing visions and nightmares of the same deadly battle they all fought together. Must have been a horrifying bit of carnage.”  
“Right!” Ethan said quietly, earnestly. “Mass psychogenic illness, or disorder. It affects members of a close cohesive social group. A stress response. Several types of MPI have occurred over the ages. In thirteenth-century Italy, it was dancing hysteria. It afflicted factory workers at the onset of the industrial revolution in the West in the nineteenth century and the East in the twentieth, mostly women. It occurred in nunneries. It happens to children in schools. The big difference is those recorded instances of reactions to stress were brief. PTSD isn’t brief and it’s mostly a male thing.  
“That’s the real Beowulf story. The way the Norsemen understood it when it was recited, passed down verbally for generations in secret,” Ethan said smiling. “That was the real meaning to the Scandinavians when they were trying to maintain their own identity during a time of upheaval. The stress following the European Migration Period after Rome fell.  
“The Christian poet that heard the poem distorted the whole thing when he wrote his version,” Ethan said frowning covering the pain in his ribs from Gurd’s tightening grip. “His twisted version was created for a Christian Anglo-Saxon people in the ninth century. A time when Anglo-Saxons were trying to establish their own identity in England. Distancing themselves from their animistic-shamanistic forebears. Pagans was and still is the popular term, nobody says animistic-shamanistic people. The poet did a service to the Anglo-Saxon Christians in Britain but at great expense to the truth, to the Scandinavian reality.”  
Eyes closed, Gurd’s mind racing with all he’d just heard. Turning on his back, arm over his face, realizing Ethan was a traveler in the Netherworld searching out secrets.  
Gurd understood why the first time he looked into Ethan’s eyes they shared something profound. He thought it was love but the moment in his mother’s garden in Ethan’s grasp was nothing like today when Gurd embraced Sam. The warmth welling from his heart.  
“Your monster—the one preventing you from entering the collective unconscious—is the equivalent of Grendel’s mother sending flashbacks and nightmares keeping the warriors from doing their job,” Ethan’s whisper and steady gaze hypnotic. “Grendel’s mother was the MPI affecting the psyche of the Norse warriors in the collective unconscious. Your monster is the PTSD affecting your psyche in the Netherworld—stopping you from doing what you want with your life.  
“I know what you want to do with your life because I forced it out of you at the wedding reception,” Ethan murmured placing a hand on the side of Gurd’s face. “You want to heal children as the Oromo shaman healed you of Scarlet fever, but you can’t get into the Netherworld because Brónach-tarbh is standing there guarding the entrance with his sword.  
“We’ll go in and kill him so you’ll be reborn whole,” Ethan confident, reassuring. “That cave he’s always hanging around is your normal portal into the Netherworld, lucid dreaming. You have to find another way in so we can surprise him from another direction.”  
“What… bull,” Gurd said lifting his arm, frowning, opening his eyes squinting, placing his hand over Ethan’s hand.  
“You understand Scots-Gaelic?” Frozen, Ethan staring back realizing his mistake. He’d blurted too much too quickly.  
“A few words,” Gurd replied blinking. “Horse is each. Goat is gobhar. Sheep is caoraich. Bull is tarbh.”  
“Brónach-tarbh, Sad-bull. What I call him,” Ethan replied eyes shifting, ears turning red biting his lip.  
“Ethan… you have a relationship with… my monster in the collective unconscious?” Gurd whispering incredulous, eyes searching, fingers interlacing gripping Ethan’s hand.  
“Well, yes, and no, Hurdy Gurdy,” Ethan said exhaling, grimacing, eyes steady. “My avatar, Psycho Pomp, has a relationship with Brónach, your correlate in the Netherworld, in the collective unconscious. We, Psycho Pomp and Brónach met years ago maybe when I was fifteen or sixteen. I’ve been visiting the Underworld since I was seven.  
“Let me explain, Gurd,” Ethan solemn considering where to begin. “Know what you can do with an obsidian mirror in the Netherworld?  
“Got a joint handy?” Ethan tried smiling, looking into Gurd’s eyes. “I’ll tell you the story of Psycho Pomp and Brónach-tarbh. It’s the story of us once upon a time in a faraway land before we—Ethan and Gurd—knew we had a story.”  
#  
“Ethan, do you have a name for your life force in the Netherworld?” Gurd asked voice level, left hand over mouth and chin, eyes staring at the ceiling when Ethan completed the tale.  
“I think of him as Gobhar-làn, Fiery Goat,” Ethan replied uneasily trying to gauge Gurd’s reaction to his narrative, watching his face.  
“You ever considered what kind of relationship Gobhar-làn and Brónach-tarbh have? I mean when your consciousness isn’t melded with Gobhar-làn?” Gurd asked eyes sliding sideways to Ethan laying on his side propped on his elbow over Gurd’s right arm. “You think maybe they’re snuggled up now just like we are? In a parallel universe, the collective unconscious, the Netherworld?”  
“More than you can imagine,” Ethan responded sighing wistfully flopping on his back. “I’ve never seen any indication Brónach believes Psycho Pomp and Gobhar-làn are two sides of the same coin.”  
“You’re challenging The One Percent in the Netherworld like you are here, Ethan,” Gurd stated after a slight pause collecting his thoughts. “You’ve involved the sad bull in Carousel’s mission.”  
“No, no, I haven’t involved Brónach,” Ethan whispered reaching to take Gurd’s hand eyes sliding to watch Gurd’s reaction. “He’s one of my sources but I’ve never explained to Brónach what I’ve been doing there. I don’t believe anyone in the Underworld knows about the Psycho Pomp-Brónach relationship. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone there, not even to my other sources.  
“There’ll be no way to connect you to Carousel if you decide to help us and Brónach is in no danger in the Underworld from anyone but us—you and me,” Ethan took a deep breath rising onto his elbow, searching Gurd’s eyes.  
“I didn’t consciously plan, or scheme to make any of this happen,” Ethan whispered anxiously voice tight with conviction. “I’ve only pieced it together today and I’ve told you all I can.  
“Love can’t be planned, Gurd,” Ethan sighed resigned at a loss for words. “How love happens can’t be explained. Why it lasts, persists. Yes, maybe there are words for that. How? No.”

Chapter Thirty-One  
Interrogations and Peyote

Gurd woke from a pleasant dream. His euphoria quickly dissipating, realizing the room was dark, he was alone. He sensed the stillness before the first light of dawn. He wasn’t ready for another day. Too much was happening. He needed time to think.  
“Ethan?” he ventured rising on his elbows.  
Suddenly buffeted by an inveterate, unrelenting sense of isolation and anxiety, Gurd fell back, hands covering his face. He dreaded days after waking from a nightmare, but he hated days beginning like this.  
“Shit!” he muttered rubbing his eyes running his fingers through his hair, frustrated.  
Abruptly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Gurd searched for his shorts. He pulled them on padding from the bedroom, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts. Solitary moments like this all too often opened the door for searching for who he is, what he is. The conclusion was always the same: he was a berserk monster.  
“Ethan?” he raised his voice, walking toward the bathroom noting the strong scent of the liquid soap Ethan used. He padded in, rinsing his dry mouth, splashing water on his face, parting his hair swiping the sprigs from his forehead.  
Strolling to the window overlooking the driveway, Gurd peered out. The Jeep was in the drive, the fountain sparkling, sphinx solemn. As he watched the thin red band forming on the eastern horizon, he listened for any sounds. With his right hand he grasped his left wrist twisting the horsehair bracelet as he walked across the room. Opening the apartment door, he descended the stairs, hearing the dogs stirring, and the ocarina tune.  
“Ethan?” he called opening the house side door, walking through the kitchen to the back door.  
The dogs were waiting for him with enthusiastic wagging tails, whimpers, hopping, shifting on their paws. Walking out and kneeling among them to rub and scratch them, noses bumping, tongues lapping his face, he caught sight of Ethan on the veranda. He was lying on his back with his right knee up, left arm under his head, eyes closed. He was wearing a fresh pair of cargo shorts his cowboy hat low over his eyes playing Debussy’s “Arabesque” softly on his ocarina.  
“Ethan, are you all right?” Gurd tried a lighthearted tone but heard the tension, the need in his voice.  
Ethan raised his hand with the ocarina to beckon him over lowering the instrument to his chest. As Gurd lay next to him propped up on his elbow, he placed his hand on Ethan’s hand. His anxiety melting away with each beat of Ethan’s heart against his palm, Gurd gazed out over the tranquil backyard watching the dogs play.  
“Are you comfortable out here on this hard surface?” Gurd asked voice steady.  
“Well, I was,” Ethan replied contentedly, eyes still closed. “I had three hundred plus pounds of dog around me, and under my head, until you got up. Then they all abandoned me.”  
“Sorry,” Gurd said leaning down edging the hat back tenderly kissing Ethan on the lips.  
“You sound tense. You had a good, peaceful night didn’t you?” Ethan asked concerned, opening his eyes. Gurd nodded.  
“The dogs didn’t, so I came down here,” Ethan sighed reaching to caress Gurd’s face and neck with his fingertips.  
“Were the dogs barking a lot?” Gurd asked instinctively glancing around the yard looking for signs of mischief.  
“Howling a lot,” Ethan explained inhaling deeply, passing his hand over his head. He scratched, knocking away the hat trying not to wince at the pain from the movement. “There were sirens all night, fire mostly I think. Smells like civilized fire, not a wildfire.”  
“Okay,” Gurd said, planting another longer kiss on Ethan’s lips, rising to his feet. “Come on let’s go. Derrick will be here soon to run the dogs before it warms up much more. If he finds me here, he may think I want to run the business. He doesn’t like that, he can run it fine by himself.”  
#  
Gurd discovered three business cards wedged between the door and door sill at the condo, one each from the local police, state police, and the FBI. Ecstatic, Ethan did a little Scottish jig up and down the steps in excited anticipation.  
“I always wanted to talk to an FBI agent,” Ethan said, green eyes bright, brows raised. “I’ve got a lot of questions to ask him. You think we’ll be finger-printed? I’ve never done that, or been DNA-ed.” He glanced at his fingertips then suggestively scratching his crotch, eliciting an indecipherable, muffled brogue response from Wee Clown.  
Gurd felt off balance by the morning’s shift from the oddly peaceful dream to his subsequent anxiety to the tranquility in the backyard with Ethan and the dogs. Feeling in the lurch, he chuckled shaking his head closing the door, shucking off his clothes, and undressing Ethan animatedly reading the cards aloud.  
Gurd let Ethan and Wee Clown fill him with ‘their’ enthusiasm for the interviews while they showered. As they dressed, he smiled nodding at Ethan’s antics and lively jokes about law enforcement officers. He thought it odd Ethan was not packing a phone into every pocket of his cargo shorts as usual.  
“You’re not yourself today,” Ethan commented as he pulled bagels, honey, and pine nuts from the cabinets.  
“How so?” Gurd asked eyebrows arching while he opened the refrigerator retrieving cream cheese, peaches, and cherries.  
“You haven’t put on any music,” Ethan replied whisking out knives and plates.  
“Have a request?” Gurd asked.  
“The Marriage of Figaro!” Ethan announced with a flourish of napkins.  
“It’s over there somewhere,” Gurd laughed gesturing toward the CDs with a fist holding peaches.  
#  
While placing their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink, Gurd lowered the volume before taking a phone call from his mother. As they were slipping on their sandals moments later, he answered a call from Chief.  
“That was chief,” he said, contemplative, lips pursed sliding the phone into a front pocket of his cargo pants. “Some of the construction equipment and materials on the church property exploded and burned last night. Our crew is working on Mother’s property, but the other crew is off for the day.”  
“I think I’m going to like this guy,” Gurd said waving the card from the FBI agent. “Let’s stop by the State police first and drop names.”  
“Whose names are we going to drop?” Gurd asked puzzled strolling to the window plucking khat.  
“Eduardo’s!” Ethan replied ‘Surprise’ instantly appearing on his face, reaching to grab Gurd’s hand.  
“Stop giggling,” Ethan said feigning concern eyebrows knitting lips puckering. “It’s got to the point you’re laughing at everything I say, or do.”  
#  
Gurd was still holding Ethan’s hand when they entered the Albuquerque police station. Buoyed by Ethan’s confident attitude, he smiled pleasantly at the officers and other people trying not to stare at them.  
Gurd was the first to be escorted to an interview room. His light mood vanished, turning as he was leaving the waiting room to see Ethan’s features shift to the slightly smiling, blank-faced ‘Clueless’.  
An hour later, feeling sure the officer was satisfied Gurd knew nothing about the deaths of the two airmen, he returned to the reception area. Leafing through magazines, Gurd mulled over the line of questioning indicating the officer suspected all five murders and three mysterious deaths were connected. He was worried about Ethan, but he tried to suppress any semblance of his restless anxiety mindful of the observation cameras.  
Gurd was momentarily surprised to hear a burst of laughter as a door opened down the hall. He was amazed to see Ethan’s big erection evident beneath the fabric of his shorts when he strolled from the room.  
“What can I say?” Ethan asked dropping ‘Clueless’, eyebrows arching shrugging walking out the door. “When they saw the bruises on my arm and legs they wanted me to strip so they could take pictures even after I explained the afternoon in the arena with the bulls. Wee Clown liked the place apparently, but he didn’t drool, or anything like that. I’ve never seen a picture of myself naked so I asked if I could have a copy.”  
#  
“Wow!” Ethan exclaimed walking out of the State Police headquarters into the glaring heat two hours later dropping ‘Clueless’, his erection subsiding. “I liked that place even better. They liked my jokes. They wanted me to get naked, and flex my muscles, and pose like a bodybuilder. I think that photographer intends to keep some of those photos for himself,” he added in a confidential whisper as Gurd chuckled helplessly feeling at loose ends.  
“I may have an idea about how to get in and kill the monster,” Ethan whispered climbing into the Jeep. “Let’s see what you think when we’re through at the FBI. I promise we promise to behave. Everything will be fine. People can see that’s just nervous giggling of an innocent man.”  
#  
The FBI agents were busier than the local and state police. Only Agent Cohn and one subordinate were available to conduct the interviews. Gurd was escorted to the interrogation room first after waiting for more than an hour.  
Saul Cohn was a robust, somber, graying man. To Gurd, he seemed weighted down with the horrors of past and present crimes. The dapper, handsome subordinate, introduced by Agent Cohen as Sherman Dumuntzi, said nothing taking copious notes during the interview. Gurd thought Sherman fit the stiff, sterile metal-chair-and-table décor.  
Hours later, Gurd watched Ethan quietly walk from the elevator into the reception area after his interview. Grimacing, Ethan pulled him up from his seated position, and hand-in-hand they walked silently to the door. Feeling relieved to see him and unable to restrain himself, Gurd leaned to plant a kiss on Ethan’s lips as the glass doors closed behind them.  
Droves of people began flooding out of the building when the earth under their feet heaved and bounced, recoiling, lurching again throwing them onto the hot pavement. Glass from the windows sprinkled down over them as they scrambled to their feet darting for the Jeep.  
#  
“I think we should not discuss these interviews,” Ethan said breaking his silence since the aftershock as they each were seated at a Lebanese restaurant by a pretty waitress eyes sparkling lips slightly trembling.  
“I agree,” Gurd said to Ethan and, refusing the menus with a charming smile, to the waitress, “A Mezza board for each of us, please, Anna, big bottle of Perrier, glasses topped with ice. Hot day, Anna! And a plate of my favorite cookies.”  
“It’ll only be a minute before she’s back,” Gurd said placing his napkin in his lap. “I come here a lot. She likes the big tip.”  
“She looks more like she loves you more than the tip,” Ethan countered with a grin.  
The place was crowded and lively with conversation and laughter of affluent, university students of several nationalities. A man strummed on an acoustic baglama in the shaded, outdoor hookah bar, fans rotating. The tables and chairs were black lacquer, table cloths white. On the walls hung Picasso ink drawings: Picasso-the-Bull-and-Me, Bullfighter, Bull Fight Scene, Bullfight III, and Don Quixote framed in black. Potted palms and exotic cactus stood in the corners and windows.  
“You want to avoid any discussion,” Gurd said quietly, face somber, digging into the black-bean hummus with his fingers after the waitress placed the big order on the table, “that might delve into heavy deliberations? At least until I’m the real and true Gurd cured and free of my monster? Good idea. What’s your idea for ridding me of my monster, Ethan?”  
“Well, yes, exactly, Hurdy Gurdy. Let’s keep it light… let’s be distant… avoid grave discussions that might feed my anxieties,” Ethan answered, nodding his head, stuffing pita bread loaded with fresh tabouli into his mouth. He added around the food, “We’ve been avoiding delving into lots of subjects. Let’s prioritize. Monster first. We’ll share all when he’s out of the way.”  
Gurd nodded with the music as he opened the chilled Perrier and filled the frosty glasses. Neither of them wanted to discuss Sam’s trauma or the deaths of the two Airmen. Gurd knew he would have killed the men if Ethan hadn’t. They both knew Gurd would have ended his own life after that.  
Gurd didn’t want to risk bringing up the topic of the murdered Cimarron men. He understood Ethan had his motives for killing agents of the Lagash organization—defending Carousel, which Ethan equated with his Self. So, in a sense it was self-defense. Gurd had killed in self-defense, also defending his father and Thamade.  
Gurd was certain Ethan didn’t want further discussion on the subject of the corresponding, intimate relationship occurring between their twin life forces, Brónach, and Gobhar, in the Netherworld. They were planning to kill Brónach.  
“My idea is like a rodeo bull, an extreme hybrid,” Ethan said lightly, holding Gurd’s gaze. “Did the Pueblo Indians ever use peyote in the curing rituals or healing ceremonies they held in the kivas?”  
“Possibly, but I don’t know any evidence in support of it,” Gurd replied ceasing his nodding taking a mouthful of falafel laden with tzatziki.  
“I think you and I should excavate the kiva up on the Karabaldo estate,” Ethan said dropping his gaze to the board briefly, contemplating the choices.  
“You sip a little peyote tea in the kiva when the sipapu is uncovered,” spoken quietly while spooning a concoction he’d never seen before onto soft, fresh pita bread, “pop into the collective unconscious. Entering by a method you’ve never used, a hallucinogen. I’ll join you there through my regular avenue, yoga-meditation. Don’t worry, I’ll find you as long as we keep the same tune in our heads. Let’s say “Clare de Lune” by Debussy. We kill the monster. We return,” taking a bite, face scrunching in pleasure jaws working.  
“Great plan, on the lam in the underworld. Got any peyote?” Gurd inquired calmly staring as Ethan raised his eyes.  
“Yeah, Hurdy Gurdy,” Ethan replied after clearing his throat and winking. “A gift, not an illegal purchase. The person who severed the plant from the earth assured me the proper rituals were observed to placate the spirit of the plant.  
“What’s this stuff?” Ethan asked, falafel in his hand hovering above the board, poised to dig in. “It’s delicious. Dodah Pearl would have loved this place.  
“That is baba ghanoush, mostly eggplant and garlic. That’s muhammara, red peppers, walnut, and spice. Okay, I’m in,” Gurd said brightly, nodding with the music.  
“Let’s do it… and I can be distant if you can,” Gurd murmured certain of Ethan’s love for him uncertain about Gobhar’s love for Brónach.  
“We may be able to make it up there this evening,” Gurd said elbow on table holding up a fist, raising a finger indicating each task he began citing. “As soon as we get through here, we can go back to the office where I can pick up all the gear, and call Dama.  
“One of Mom’s mares pitched a shoe this morning,” Gurd sipped water and held up a second finger. “She has something she wants to give you, and we need to pick up two puppies I promised the Karabaldo twins. I need to go by the blacksmith’s shop to pick up some shovels and trowels he tailored for me so I’ll take the mare over there. Leave the trailer for when we take her back home. And I’ll need to update Sam on today’s events and plans. He’s back at the clinic. How’s that for Plan A?” Gurd finished rolling fingers into a fist.  
“Sounds good to me,” Ethan replied with a dimpled smile. “Ever done any peyote?”  
“Nope. Have you?” Gurd replied shaking his head.  
“Nope.”  
“Don’t tell me it’s been in the Jeep in your backpack all this time.”  
“Like it’s more illegal than the hashish in your pack?  
“You understand under normal circumstances an avatar in the collective unconscious is a combination, an amalgam of the conscious and unconscious person. That’s what gives the avatar the facility, the strength to operate in the Netherworld,” Gurd said wiping his mouth with his napkin, sipping water, watching Ethan nodding, chewing. “So you realize my avatar will be virtually useless without Brónach, who is in control of a large part of my unconscious energy in the Underworld, and who, or which, we plan to kill?”  
“I believe I have something I can give you when we get there that'll remedy the problem,” Ethan swallowed and replied. “If it doesn’t work we’ll have to devise a Plan B. I’d like to get a big, straw sombrero makes a lot of portable shade.”  
“Yee! Haw! These cookies are good,” Ethan exclaimed. “Tastes like something bursting fresh out of Mother Nature, not something baked!”  
“Yeah,” Gurd replied grinning. “That’s an aniseed cookie.”  
#  
Late in the afternoon, driving within sight of the burned wreckage of the construction equipment, Gurd made a brief detour from Highway 25 to visit his excavation crew. He parked near the volunteers’ vehicles on a dirt road within view of the site, but a quarter-mile to the north of at a gate on his mother’s property. Ethan in his new, giant sombrero that spread drooping nearly to his shoulders, they carried the excited pups cradled in their arms keeping them from hot sand, cactus spines, and rattlesnakes.  
“There are some things you may want to hear, but don’t want the guys to hear especially the biggest gossip,” Eric said somberly, nodding in the general direction of Eduardo.  
Eric had started walking toward Gurd and Ethan when they left the Jeep meeting them halfway to the site. In the distance under an awning on aluminum poles, Eduardo’s body language suggested he was in a sulk as though the two men were not on the best of terms.  
“What have you heard?” Eric asked reaching to pet a puppy.  
“Only what Chief told me when I talked to him this morning,” Gurd replied fondling the squirming puppy, continuing at a slower pace toward the site.  
“Eco-terrorists,” Eric said nodding toward the destroyed construction equipment. “Two burned bodies, or pieces of bodies. One identified as Felipé Karabaldo by the things found in a wallet. The other one was too severely burned and fragmentary to identify. They’ll have to resort to dental records. The explosives are relatively distinctive, tentatively identified as stuff from the seismic investigations for oil down in the southeast part of the state.  
“But there’s something that’ll concern you more,” Eric said nose crinkling, waving his right hand in a dismissive gesture at the wreckage.  
“The FBI and the Defense Intelligence Agency had a little conference,” Eric said quietly and quickly, noticing Eduardo walking toward them. “The DIA thinks their second little togetherness conference should include Do-Do, and for the third one you should be a guest.”

Chapter Thirty-Two  
Northern Lights and A One-Thousand-Yard Stare

Gurd and Ethan joined Billie, Violetta, Mai, Rosario, Cielo, Sueño, and the puppies in the kitchen the following morning for a huge, traditional Scottish breakfast. Ceiling fans stirred to cool air as Ethan hungrily selected from the platers of fried eggs, savory kippers, tattie scones, oatcakes, tomatoes fried with mushrooms and onions, and buttered toast.  
Sipping tea chatting they were reluctant to leave the harmonious family atmosphere for the relentless heat of the day. Ethan helped Mia and Rosario wash and dry the dishes. Gurd assisted Dama and the Señora watering the roses, chrysanthemums, and marigolds in the courtyard while the twins brought the wagon to the house.  
The clinks of the harness, the creaks of the wagon, the song of the lark, and the scent of sage and cottonwoods barely registered on Gurd’s thoughts. Holding hands with Ethan, strolling along the trail to the site shortly after sunrise. He felt his rapport with Ethan was deepening and expanding with their collaboration on the course of Gurd’s dissertation and redesign of Ethan’s algorithms. Things that currently mattered most to them. He felt their relationship gave each of them hope in the future for some alleviation of their afflictions, a more enjoyable, fulfilling life.  
That moment in his mother’s rose bushes pressed chest-to-chest with Ethan, Gurd had felt love blooming for the first time in his life. Ethan’s heart-sunlight pouring into Gurd’s blossoming heart. Gurd had been shocked, muscles rigid grappling with a sensation he’d never experienced. He’d trusted Ethan with his secret ambition before ever looking into Ethan’s eyes.  
Loved happened. Trust had instantly come with it. There was no question in Gurd’s mind Ethan was with him to give “ease and build a heaven in hell’s despair”. Gurd believed Ethan was prepared to sacrifice his bond with Brónach. He believed Ethan was willing to watch an element of Gurd’s psyche die so Gurd could be free to do what he wanted with his life.  
Gurd was worried about Ethan’s hell. More than once in the past few days he had glimpsed Ethan’s rage boiling bursting on the surface of his face an ephemeral-bubble micro expression.  
Gurd thought Ethan was a man of principles, devoting his life to getting his precarious laughs with his risky mission against TOP. He believed as long as Ethan kept to the course circumscribed by his algorithms, associates, friends, and agents, he would be successful and happy with his mission in life. However, Gurd had decided Ethan was targeting people symbolic of environmental and social injustice: a member of The Rig—Lagash—and a member of The One Percent—Dumuntzi. Gurd felt Ethan’s mission had become personal, no longer professional.  
Ethan’s psyche was twisting. Gurd hoped if their mission in the Netherworld was successful he would be in a position to help Ethan.  
The twins climbed down from the wagon, helping unload the equipment and big ice chest and set up and anchor the rocker screen near the end of the stone outcrop in the river. Having stripped to avoid getting their clothes wet, Cielo and Sueño, dressed and departed with the wagon. Naked, Ethan and Gurd toweled each other in the harsh morning sunlight under a clear sky.  
“I’ll help you kill the Monster, and you can be whole again. You can be free to be who you are, do what you want with your life,” Ethan said cheerfully looking into his eyes giving Gurd’s head and hair a final tousle with the towel, dropping it on his tanned shoulders.  
Gurd grinned, nodding, combing his hair with the fingers of his left hand, lifting the medallion his mother gave Ethan with his right hand. It was a replica of an ancient coin depicting Alexander the Great in profile, the same image tattooed on Gurd’s neck, the logo of the family company. The gold pendant and chain gleamed in the sunlight against the red hair on Ethan’s chest briefly before Ethan crammed the floppy sombrero on his head.  
“You’re a member of the family now,” Gurd said dipping his head under the broad brim kissing Ethan briefly on the lips.  
An abrupt, tremendously loud BOOM shattered the air causing Ethan to jump, ducking his head, a jet of urine squirting from his penis. Gurd was too amazed at Ethan’s antics to respond to the sound.  
“You clown!” Gurd said, trying to suppress his laughter, pointing at Wee Clown. “You did that on purpose!”  
“Nope, just been jumpy lately,” Ethan said removing the hat calmly gazing up into the sky searching for the airplane responsible for the sonic boom.  
“Witches, UFOs, berserk bulls, forest fires, earthquakes, sonic booms… monsters,” Ethan muttered lowering a metal ocarina-holder onto his neck, inserting the instrument, replacing the sombrero.  
Struggling to subdue his giggles, Gurd unpacked the computer-generated maps and equipment. Along with the new trowels, shovels, and other miscellaneous gear he pulled out three laptop computers.  
Gurd explained one was for recording the horizontal and vertical measurements of the excavation through a GPS sensor, creating maps of the investigation at every ten-centimeter level of progress. The second was connected to the camera for photo-documentation of the work. The third was for keeping the written records including artifact inventory, soil and pollen samples, and excavation forms for each level.  
While Ethan was unfolding director’s chairs, Gurd drove into the ground amid the Black-eyed Susan a metal stake to serve as the datum for the excavation. He switched on the computers and accessed the appropriate programs on each.  
“This could all be done on one computer, but I make fewer mistakes if I use three. I’ll be treating the kiva as a single excavation unit,” Gurd burst into a spasm of laughter when Ethan lowered his hand to grab Wee Clown making gagging sounds.  
“All you need to do is take the wheelbarrow I fill with dirt down to the edge of the river,” Gurd grinned, chuckling when Ethan released a coughing Wee Clown, “pitch the dirt with the shovel into the screen. Shake it, splash a little water in, and when all the dirt has sifted through bring the artifacts up here and bag them.” Gurd gestured to the box of paper bags and plastic vials. “Just use a marker to indicate on the bag which ten-centimeter level they came from. Put fragile things, or small stuff like turquoise beads in those plastic pill containers before you move away from the screen. Label the pill vials and leave them on the screen until we’ve finished the ten-centimeter level then put them in with the other stuff in the level-bag.”  
Gurd set the short GPS rod at the base and top of the datum, and other points on the ground surface. Tapping keys, documenting the elevations, and dating forms while continuing his explanation.  
“Then come back up here to get this second wheelbarrow whether it’s full or not,” he said grinning, examining the first map forming on the computer screen.  
“I hope we can take a break when I get bored, or I start shriveling up like a raisin from being in the water,” Ethan nose crinkling, frowning mockingly, cramming the hat firmly on his head blowing a few discordant notes on the ocarina.  
“Sure,” Gurd said smiling, gesturing toward the two-man saw, chainsaw, and can of gasoline the twins brought. “Then we can cut a few limbs off the old cottonwood, and maybe start on the trunk. You’ll need to show me the way it’s done.”  
“I might shrivel up!?” Wee Clown whined in Scottish brogue with drooping head, “Nvair a bhios sinn s ‘dol a sgríobadh?”  
“You don’t want to know,” Ethan lowering his head raising his eyebrows responding to Gurd’s quizzical expression.  
“Maybe after we get limbered up,” Gurd laughed, dark eyes glittering in the sunlight, tucking in some khat, adding as he eyed Wee Clown, “These new shovels and trowels were made from a special alloy that keeps a sharp edge so be careful around them.”  
To the sound of Scottish, classical melodies played on the ocarina, they worked naked in the stifling heat all day. They alternated between trimming off tree branches, and the excavation. Gurd occasionally asked the name of the composer of some tunes he thought were moving, beautiful. They took breaks to nibble pine and pinyon nuts, dried fruit, sip iced, green tea and consider algorithm designs on the new computer Ethan purchased (and programmed during his sleepless nights).  
Just as the sun began to slip behind the hill to the west, they hurriedly pulled on their shorts at the sound of the whistling twins approaching on the river in a canoe. They walked down taking the big picnic basket from Cielo, thanking them, asking about the status of the wildfire. Returning to rest, and eat mounds of spinach lasagna, a loaf of garlic bread and half a cheesecake Gurd gazed into the kiva musing on ancient rituals. Ethan held his hand and watched the rabbits cavorting on the other side of the river.  
The progress was easier than Gurd expected. He had excavated a meter down, a third of the predicted depth. The stone walls were a little more than a half-foot thick, made of brown, rusty, or cream-colored sandstone blocks. It seemed perfectly round at precisely three and a half meters across. A few stones were missing from the top of the west section, but Gurd was sure he’d uncover them lower down resting on the original floor. As he expected, there were few artifacts. A series of burrows and nest chambers dug by rodents resulted in the disturbance of the provenience of some objects, but Gurd considered it inconsequential.  
After their meal, they leisurely gathered the trimmed limbs from the ground around the cottonwood carrying them up to the road. Wiping sweat with their bandannas returning to the tree, they gazed up to assess their work, speculating on the time needed to strip and fell it.  
“You can easily get heavy doors for a double front entry for the clinic from it,” Ethan said patting the big trunk head nodding, hat bobbing.  
#  
Saturday they accomplished as much, or more than Friday despite sore muscles. Ethan was relieved when they finished excavating another meter down, bagging the last artifact for the day. His ribs hurt more than ever and his left wrist and injured fingers were aching.  
Gurd was sure Ethan would have abandoned the monotony of shaking the screen if he didn’t have his ocarina to play. He was happy to see the last branch of the day fall from the tree, hoping he’d never again have to use a chainsaw.  
After a cooling dip in the river as they sat leaning against the tree, finishing the vegetarian shepherd’s pie and blueberry muffins delivered by the twins, Gurd opened the computer. Time was lost to them, considering the pros and cons of codes and designs of an algorithm for the dissertation research. Occasionally, the squawking family of magpies arguing with a pair of pinyon jays, or the rabbits frolicking on the far side of the river caught their attention.  
“How do you experience the collective unconscious?” Ethan suddenly asked removing his hat. He pointed at the four deer on the opposite shore cautiously approaching the river to drink, twilight blooming.  
“I don’t want to confuse, or complicate your perceptions and experience of the underworld with mine until after we do what we need to do there,” Gurd answered watching the deer, slightly irritated at the change of subject. “I’ll lead, but you’ll have to direct me based on your experience. If you’re directing the way, you don’t need my experience, or perceptions to complicate things.  
“Back to algorithms. Your perspective as an environmentalist in viewing culture is different from mine. As an anthropologist, I’ve come to look at Nature as an external force shaping culture from the outside. You identify with Nature. I identify with Culture,” Gurd continued gesturing at the computer in an agitated, frustrated manner, the expression in his dark-blue eyes sharp.  
“That’s what we’ve been trying to do here, adjust our worldviews combining them,” Gurd said cocking his head eyes sliding sideways to Ethan. “You’re a clowning insurrectionist, and I’m a scholarly institutionalist. We’re also trying to reconcile that aspect of how we interact with the world.”  
“Okay, right, but we both have our roots in the Netherworld,” Ethan replied gently imitating Gurd’s gesture at the computer. Ethan felt he wasn’t communicating well with the analytical, left-brain Gurd. He had too much on his mind.  
“I’m sorry, Hurdy Gurdy, maybe we should tackle this another time,” Ethan murmured removing his glasses rubbing his eyes voice lowering into a mutter. “I’m edgy about some things I can’t share with you. When I’m tense my communication skills tend to get worse, more confusing. Wade could explain this better than me. Maybe we should arrange for a free of exchange with Wade helping developing your dissertation and you advising on Carousel’s revamp. Got another joint?”  
Gurd lifted his leather pouch from the ground, extracting a lighter and a foil of rolled joints from among the plastic bags of khat leaves. He removed one, lighting it, taking a puff, passing it to Ethan.  
Following another refreshing float on the river under the stars they toweled dry stretching out embracing on their sleeping bags. They quietly, casually exchanged random ideas about algorithms, the environment, culture, listening to an owl hooting, watching the stars, a rare display of Northern Lights.  
“There’s one thing I should warn you about, but you’ll have to trust me when I say I can’t give you the whole picture,” Ethan drew a deep breath, idly tapping a Black-eyed Susan with his toe. “Kind of a wild card in the Netherworld we may encounter. Ever see the de Niro movie Angel Heart? Another thing… ever heard of the ancient, blacksmith Hasammeli?”  
Gurd searched for leftover cheesecake and blueberry muffins and another joint. They smoked and ate all the leftovers while Ethan explained.  
#  
Gently releasing Gurd from his embrace at dawn, Ethan rose stretching in the hot, faint breeze rolling with the river down the valley. Gurd watched from the tumble of sleeping bags and pillows, Ethan pulling the bottle from the ice chest, sipping mango juice, ambling over to examine the cottonwood trunk and saws.  
Clearing his mind of Ethan’s late-night revelations, snatches of nightmares, his muddled emotions, Gurd rolled to his feet walking over, embracing him. He took the offered bottle, sipping, kissing Ethan. Leaning shoulder-to-shoulder they watched the river silver in the early light.  
“Let’s take a little swim to get limbered up,” Gurd suggested after clearing his throat, “to work out some soreness.”  
Accompanied by songs of larks under the clear sky, they waded into the pool, swimming leisurely into the lazy current of the river. Ethan stopped, turning, treading water when he thought the view of tree and slope was adequate for his explanation.  
Gurd twisted to look up in the direction of Ethan’s gaze. He paused momentarily captured by the sight of the glittering droplets in Ethan’s pale eyelashes, the glistening, gold chain, the background of sleeping daylilies gently bobbing along the path on the riverbank.  
“See how the tree is leaning a little to the southeast,” Ethan said pointing up at the cottonwood. “That’s the direction the wind blows down through the valley. That’s what caused it to start leaning that way when it was young. The slope is to the southeast too, but we can’t let it fall that way, or a big part of it will end up on the site, or in the river if it rolls.  
“Plan A,” he said sweeping his arm down, palm open splashing water in Gurd’s face, “is to cut out a big wedge on the northwestern side. That’s the face-cut. Then cut out a belly-notch a little higher on the southeastern side of the trunk so it’ll fall to the northwest when we saw through to the face-cut. That’s why I left some branches at the very top on the northwest side so the added weight would make it fall that way.  
“Got that?” he asked grinning, flicking more water into Gurd’s face with the back of his hand.  
Gurd grabbed Ethan’s hand, eyes wide and challenging. They floated with the current wrestling to the cove thrashing, laughing until they bumped into the screen.  
“Got it,” Gurd sputtered flicking hair from his brow.  
#  
Before noon, Gurd watched the tree fall in the intended direction. Gripping Ethan, stumbling to a safer location as the trunk took a couple of wild, high bounces on the sloping ground before it came to rest aligned with the lilies. Releasing him, standing slightly to his right and behind him, Ethan brushed sawdust and leaves from Gurd’s back and shoulders. He suddenly realized Gurd was rigid, a statue.  
“No!” Ethan rasping taking a slow step forward swiveling watching Gurd’s face.  
Ethan’s eyes met the thousand-yard-stare. Glancing back in the direction of Gurd’s empty gaze, Ethan briefly studied the fallen tree. Turning back to Gurd, Ethan kept his voice low his face immobile.  
“Noooo, Gurd, don’t let him take you here, now!” Ethan whispering taking another step.  
Keeping an eye on Gurd, Ethan hurried down to the river knelt to soak his big sombrero in the water, and slapped it on his head. He slowly approached Gurd.  
“I’m going to put my arms around you, Gurd,” Ethan said in an even voice gently embracing him sensing the chill of Gurd’s perspiring skin. “I’m going to hold you, Gurd, okay, for a while?”  
“Gurd, I love you,” Ethan murmured resting his chin on Gurd’s cold shoulder. “We can’t both be cripples. We gotta help each other, Hurdy Gurdy.”  
“I love you,” Ethan whispering face crumpling tears trickling down his cheeks.  
Ethan was instantly apprehensive when Gurd’s arm suddenly raised, hand gripping the back of his neck forefinger twining into the red curls. Ethan leaned slightly away from Gurd’s shoulder to watch his face from the side, the long stare. He carefully moved chest-to-chest his head on Gurd’s shoulder.  
The sun moved all the shadows into hiding. The sombrero dripped the larks sang and the river rippled quietly. Ethan felt Gurd warming relaxing, sweat pouring. The long stare shorter, coming closer to the here and now.

Chapter Thirty-Three  
Dressed to Kill and A whirlwind

The sun’s trail westward was obscured by high clouds when they resumed the excavation after a smoke and a refreshing frolic in the river. Gurd felt energized, a bodily craving for more physical activity.  
Gurd wanted to dig in and get to the bottom of the kiva. As fortune would have it, the final, lowest meter proved to be more complicated than the upper two meters. Gurd uncovered more artifacts many small, delicate, and fragmented.  
He encountered bigger, tougher cottonwood roots. Increasingly frustrated and sweating profusely in the unforgiving heat, Gurd uncovered stones from the lower part of the north wall forced out of their primary position by the growing roots. He photographed and mapped the location of the stones with the GPS. He removing and labeled each so they could be replaced correctly in the wall during restoration. To complicate matters further, he encountered rocks eroded from their original position on the western top of the wall. His meticulous attention and intricate efforts in dealing with these new problems were more tiring, demanding, and time-consuming than the sheer physical force he used during the previous two days.  
Gurd judged he was about thirty centimeters from the floor of the kiva, and the opening of the sipapu, the symbolic entrance to the underworld. The growing dusk and lowering visibility prevented him from digging deeper. The dinner basket the twins delivered sat untouched. He was exhausted, sweaty, covered with dust.  
Gurd handed the joint to Ethan, staring down at the top of the globular object in the center of the excavation, trying to decide if it was a small rounded boulder or the bottom of an inverted ceramic pot. He wasn’t sure because it was firmly in the grip of the tendrils of a large cottonwood root. The cottonwood he and Ethan had killed. He spat khat into a plastic bag, leaning the shovel against the tri-colored stone wall. He removed his sweat-soaked, leather gloves accepting the cup of steaming peyote tea from Ethan crouching on the rim of the kiva. He sipped, grimaced.  
Ethan set aside the copper cezve, hopping down into the kiva. He lifted first Gurd’s right leg then his left, removing the boots. He tossed them up onto the ground as Gurd took another thoughtful sip.  
“I’ve never brewed that stuff, might not have followed the directions correctly,” Ethan said carefully moving a trowel, settling into a lotus position his back against the stone wall.  
Gurd nodded, taking a third sip, setting the cup on the rim of the kiva next to the khat-bag. He leaned his head back watching the stars pop into the indigo sky, the green leaves rippling, the crescent moon sinking on the mauve horizon. As though performing a ritual, he scratched his sprouting beard, fingered the earring, rubbed the scar on his jaw, squeezed sweat from the horsehair bracelet, and swiped the hair from his forehead.  
Glancing to the east, Gurd noticed the silhouette of a great horned owl perched in the branches of a pine tree on the opposite side of the river. Its drowsy eyes seemed to glow like the crescent moon. It appeared to be staring at them its plumage dark like the pine needles. Gurd pointed and Ethan grunted: “Yeah, he’s been sitting there a while.  
“Sit down here lean against my chest,” Ethan suggested, adjusting the Khase medallion, the jade locket, bag containing the gold pellets and ocarina. He folded his hands over Gurd’s heart as Gurd reclined against him.  
Gurd had no idea how long he rested there naked before the Northern Lights began shimmering, swirling among the glittering stars.  
#  
The moment Debussy’s “Clare de Lune” started playing in his head Gurd gaped at Ethan’s instantaneous appearance. He was wearing the traditional style Spanish bullfighter costume: a plain, white camisa and narrow black tie, a brilliant, breathtakingly gaudy, heavily jeweled and brocaded chaquetilla, tie-dyed tights sparkling with glitter, gartered at the knees with shimmering gold tassels. Instead of the orthodox black montera, he wore a cap with furry, Mickey-Mouse ears trembling, twitching, and swiveling in a life-like manner.  
Gurd gasped looking down to see he was dressed identically, except his toe- and fingernails were painted a glowing sapphire. Ethan’s were a glimmering emerald-green his feet splattered with a deeper, scintillating green.  
Two huge, jade centaur were twitching, dying on the ground behind Ethan. Gaps in their roiling exterior oozing the deep green substance. The stuff dripped from the obsidian blade in Ethan’s hand. The Debussy fading an ambient music switching. The musica universalis a battle of symphonies like opposing armies firing rifles and cannons.  
“Now! You’re dressed to kill!” Ethan exclaimed solemnly, eyes locking with Gurd’s, wiping the blade on his tights, stepping back to gaze at Gurd.  
“Ethan!” he sighed exasperatedly noting   
“Swallow these,” Ethan said slipping the knife into a sheath on his right garter, handing Gurd two grains of gold from Hasammeli’s forge and a canteen. “We’ll see how it works. May need to up the dosage as we go.  
“Now look at me,” Ethan said earnestly capturing Gurd’s gaze. “Do not ever look into Brónach-tarbh’s eyes!”  
#  
Trekking through the five dimensions to get to Kur was relatively uneventful but the musica universalis was primarily jarring, unnerving. The interminable journeys through the various and diverse, abysmal, underground rivers, expansive caverns, boundless grottos, and the claustrophobic, twisting tunnels of the portals between the realms were quiet.  
The Netherworld was as spectacular and dazzling as he remembered it, filling him with a sense of challenge and peril but it felt smaller, somehow more cramped. Simultaneously, Gurd sensed it was more substantial and extensive.  
Strolling with Ethan at his shoulder, Gurd grappled with reconciling these contradictory impressions. His effort was frustrated by a dogged feeling he couldn’t characterize. If some aspect of their journey demanded his full attention the feeling might subside for a while, but the intense, strange stares of the gleaming creatures somehow conjured back the niggling feeling. Gurd understood his mixed emotions and perceptions were predictable under the circumstances but was troubled the feeling was overriding, distracting him from his mission.  
Exhausted, Gurd fell asleep when they arrived in sweltering Kur, but it gave him no respite. His slumber was assaulted by nightmares of children suffering in the corporeal dimension, kids waiting, hoping to be healed, relieved from their pain and suffering. He awoke to the relentlessly torturous ambiance of Kur droning atonal, restless musica universalis. Ethan was lying next to him silently wiping Gurd’s tears with a bandanna, the love and empathy surging with the contact, stimulating.  
“We need to move on,” Ethan whispered gently, chaquetilla glimmering, ears twitching nervously as Gurd rose onto his elbows. “Kur is a lot like the Middle East. Bloodshed everywhere.  
“See that giant, scarlet, Medusa-like creature on the horizon?” Ethan asked lips in a straight line, eyes crinkling. “That’s symbolic of the operations of an American arms dealer who’s promoting conflict in Yemen, Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan. It would like nothing better than to kill me. Stay low. Not much cover out here and these chaquetilla sparkle like a beacon.  
“Pop another one of these,” Ethan said, handing Gurd a grain of gold and the canteen.  
In the course of their trek across the rugged, sandy terrain skirting bloody skirmishes, Gurd’s oddly opposing perceptions of the Netherworld in the past and the present were reconciling in his mind. Realizing he was resolving one issue, he began probing into the dogged indefinable feeling late on the third day. He believed grasping its meaning must be essential to the success of their mission.  
On the morning of the fourth day, Gurd awoke from the nightmare of a small boy suffering from pain and loneliness in a dark, abandoned hospital. The lingering image of the odd look in the boy’s eyes haunted every furtive step he took amid the shimmering musical atmosphere, glittering dust, and distant yet vibrant sounds of battle.  
Suddenly, Gurd recognized the look in the boy’s eyes as the essence of the persistent, niggling feeling—a sense of endorsement, a sign of confirmation by the creatures of the collective unconscious in the propriety, the appropriateness of his presence in the Netherworld. A cherished, long-lost relative returning to the fold. At the same moment, Gurd became fully aware of the surrounding dark forest of giant, glowing, ancient cedars a symphony coming to an abrupt end, a resolution.  
An Andalusian tune swelling, bass drums pounding, electric baglamas wailing, lutes and flutes shrill, cymbals trembling with tension, a deep gong making the air shimmer. Gurd immediately noticed Ethan was growing taller, expanding. The matador costume and the skin of his avatar stretching, bulging from internal pressure.   
Instantly dreamlike, Gurd’s awareness zoomed out, extending. Sensing the countless, opalescent grains of sand like glimmering seed pearls beneath his bare feet. The gold, amethyst, and jade lichens sparkling medallions on the trunks and boulders. Glowing trees with their twinkling, deep emerald fronds all sentient beings watching him breathlessly. The glittering, iridescent mist hovering among the trunks and branches rippling gently, languidly. The Northern Lights undulating over the ground.  
“You!” Brónach thundered arm extended pointing a gleaming vulture’s claw at Ethan.  
Gurd reeled at the shattering volume of the voice in his head. Trumpets blaring, flutes screeching. Eyes bulging as though the sound was trying to escape from his skull through the sockets. Arms jerking stiffly outward away from his body. Teeth gritting against the pain, torso arching backward from the waist. Head and neck flipping back. He felt his throbbing blood vessels near bursting from his sweating skin. Mouth wide gasping trying to draw in air.  
Lurching and shuddering with Brónach’s every word. Gurd struggling to maintain his balance, keep the monster in sight.  
“I should have killed you long ago when you came snooping around my forest!” Brónach bellowed, his scaly, bronze-green surface surging, shimmering, viscous lava. The fiber of the dark hair on his buffalo head and shoulders plasma flaring from the sun. Glittering, black horns, and claws coruscating from erratic inner sources of light. Lightning storming in his glaring yellow eyes. Neon penis- and tail-serpents slithering, lashing crimson eyes laser beams.  
“This is how you return the gift of your life? The gift of my love? You bring Him here to kill me?” Brónach roared black, glistening, buffalo lips curling glossy nostril flaring.  
“We better rethink this whole thing, maybe get some professional help,” muttered Ethan voice guttural, garbled, heavy bells tolling a heavy chorus chanting.  
Cringing, cowering Ethan’s shape shifting pixels scrambling, jolting on a TV screen. Image flickering, smearing. Part clownish Psycho Pomp part sparkling, red-gold, horned Gobhar-làn. Growing taller brawny. Air scorching from friction searing Gurd’s eyes. Twisting, straining, achingly upright blinking. Gurd’s struggles a mad dance to keep track of Ethan and Brónach.  
Crouching, dodging the glinting teeth, snapping mouths of the luminous, scaly, serpentine tail and heavy, erect penis. Creeping with Ethan’s erratic form toward the entrance to Brónach’s cave, escape. Ducking and skirting branches. Mist swirling baglamas howling. Gurd falling to his knees crawling. Ethan indistinct, wavering, stretching, breaking up, crackling, glittering. Cowering protectively over him. Brónach-tarbh following. Dust and pearls swirling. Galaxies twinkling in the wake of heavy, gleaming hooves.  
“And you!” hissing cymbals Brónach seething scowling at Gurd. The voice making Gurd’s eyes wobble, the ground shake, air shimmer crazily. “Did you trick this Person into believing he convinced you to do this? Who is deceiving who and for what? Riddles!  
“The Powers-That-Be made this Person who he is,” Brónach blared glaring, fiery eyes angry, disdainfully gesturing at Ethan’s blurry, spectral, towering form lava losing boundaries. Iridescent mist swirling around Brónach’s blazing human arm, fiery lion paw, glistening vulture claws, “and They will sacrifice this Person if you kill me! Riddles!  
“You are both being used! Tricked!” Brónach shouted, body pulsing, flaring from spectral to blinding luminescence, eyes glaring. Scaly tail and penis lashing through the mist throbbing with the light flaring from his body.  
Musica universalis blaring, pounding, tumbling into discord, chaos. Gurd stumbling over the lurching ground beneath him wrestling to control his limbs.  
Gripped by the pain in his head, Gurd jostled by the swaying earth. Stumbling away from Gobhar-làn’s massive, flaring, hairy, flickering crimson body teetering between implosion, explosion. Glowing golden horns, crimson eyes now level with Brónach’s flaring, yellow eyes. On his hands and knees, Gurd flinging dust and pearls at Brónach eyes. The opalescent sand clinging to the glistening sweat on his gleaming garments, hands, and face. Falling on his stomach, trembling, jerking arms stretching, spasmodic hands groping for more sand.  
Gurd glancing back. The earth shaking violently. Sand shifting falling away into a crevasse opening in the ground behind Gobhar-làn. Blindly reaching forward, Gurd grasping an object exposed by the shifting sand near the mouth of the cave. Sensing Brónach’s sudden fear of him.  
Quaking the chaotic symphony lurching a heart-stopping pause. Gurd stood lifting, pulling the object from the opalescent sand. Brónach’s prismatic sword flashing dripping tiny pearls. Gurd rising, in command of his muscles moving with the erratic music.  
Suddenly the whispering, shimmering Northern Lights curling coiling into a growling whirlwind whipping forcefully around them. The earth gapping wider behind Gobhar a pounding gong. The fierce winds reverberating with discordant echoes engulfing all three of them. Constricting forcing them closer together.  
“Kill him!” Gobhar yelled, crimson mouth wide, lips trembling, beard wagging. His fragmenting surface boiling redder, sparkling brighter. Glancing from Gurd to the yawning crevasse. Beaming crimson horns swinging, white eyes swiveling into sight.  
Spreading gap bordered with red, scorching, smoldering sand shifting into dazzling, molten liquid, waves on a shore. Rising head of a huge, blazing-scarlet, horned bull. Framed by flickering white-hot flames of the friction. Forcefully emerging from another dimension. Blinding, white eyes searching, blinking away the scintillating, dripping, silvery, molten sand.  
“Kill him!” Gobhar screamed. Thick gruff voice rising to a grating pitch above the howling whirlwind. “We need to get outta here!”  
The scarlet bull’s fiery, forked tongue emerging. Licking its glimmering, scarlet nose. Massive, luminous, crocodilian tail lashing up from the depths. Pounding the crevasse wider shaking the ground.  
“No!” Brónach shouted at Gurd dancing, twirling legs kicking high swinging the sword while staring into Gobhar’s wide frantic eyes. Brónach falling to his knees, groping for the scarlet bull. “I can be your servant. Do not listen to this Tricky Person! He will Trick you again! He tricked me with his love!”  
Thick, sinewy, human fingers extending from between black, glistening vulture claws. Brónach grabbing the flaming, monstrous White-eye by the horns dragging him. Huge tail thrashing, body twisting, haunches bucking, legs kicking, horns swinging, mouth bellowing from the fiery, smoking hole. Serpentine green and scarlet electrical sparks, lightning flying crackling slithering at the contact between the two huge forms.  
Gurd twirling, lifting the huge sword a maestro’s baton watching Brónach rising from his knees. Lifting the crazed, roaring, thrashing, scarlet bull up into the howling whirlwind, crashing, swirling trees. Flinging him up away into the dark, howling funnel of twinkling, twirling mist and searing, sparkling sand. Splintering trunks and branches tenor drums popping, snapping.  
“Kill him!” Gobhar thundered guttural glaring over Gurd at Brónach heaving, sweating lava. Coruscating, neon filaments tangling. Horns fluorescent black-lights.  
Discordant, soaring echoes bouncing around the contracting whirlwind. Catching, lifting the sword in Gurd’s grip. Dancing with fierce deliberation Gurd feeling his movements harnessing the wild musica universalis. Sword glimmering brighter, slicing through the swirling, gleaming mist. The impact of the glowing weapon severing Brónach-tarbh’s shaggy head from his thick neck. Jarring Gurd, twirling him dizzily back into the world of consciousness.  
The final image of a young man lifting his head spreading his arms shedding the form of Brónach-tarbh like filaments of flaring plasma spinning away from the sun remaining on Gurd’s retina for the first few moments in the corporeal world.  
His first sight was of naked and bruised Ethan eyes wide, chest heaving, sweat glistening standing against the stone wall. Arms and legs spread against the grainy sandstone in the early shadows and sunlight peeking over the horizon. Following Ethan’s horrified stare, Gurd glanced down the handle of the shovel in his hands to the floor of the kiva. Cradled in the blade of the shovel amid splinters of cottonwood root, rested, not an inverted pot or a stone, but an ancient human skull. Hollow eyes staring at the sky. Below it, the open sipapu. The ground trembled, sand shifting into the kiva, a stone tumbling from the wall onto the floor. Gurd watching sweat slowly trickling through the dirt on his arms down his wrists dripping from his hands onto the skull.  
“Mister Ethan Dewar?” came a voice from above, echoing in Gurd’s ears.  
“Mister Gurd Khase?” came another voice close to the first, no echoes.  
Gurd and Ethan turned, looking up to see four men dressed in uniforms standing on the rim of the kiva. One was holding the boiled peyote button in a pair of tweezers, a second was dangling the bag of khat and hashish from his gloved hand.  
  
Chapter Thirty-Four  
Rituals and a Shadow

Astarte was livid, furious, and fit to be tied when she learned Felipé was dead, and Batista was in Mexico running from the DEA. She didn’t care as much about their fates as she did about the absence of someone to fulfill her needs.  
In addition to this irksome deprivation, she was enraged to discover her beloved father was being investigated for his involvement in several serious offenses including drug smuggling and money laundering. The absurd thought of her parents being charged with malicious hacking into the computers of several scientists across the nation left Astarte speechless with fury.  
However, her state of mind didn’t erupt into nearly apoplectic wrath until Monday morning, July Fourth when she arrived at Papa Joe’s home. (Linda Jo was in the ranch hands’ quarters, recovering from a binge inspired by guilt and grief at being caught in her misdeeds). Buddy Joe couldn’t quite comprehend his daughter’s anger. He was more than a little preoccupied with the imminent ruin of his life, and the erection of the gigantic tent near the entrance to the property for the revival Rapture was sponsoring beginning Thursday evening.  
“But Angel,” Buddy Joe asked around the cigar between his teeth, following Astarte storming from room to room trying to shield his precious stained-glass windows, gunpowder hourglasses, and framed weaponry hanging on the walls from his daughter’s fury, “how can a total stranger affect you so seriously? Are you telling me everything? Who the hell is Gurd Khase anyway?”  
Fuming with rage, Astarte responded by stomping around, sputtering, plucking pillows and cushions off the knotty-pine furniture and pitching them into the air. She couldn’t possibly tell her father everything (including her involvement with the Karabaldo brothers and how Gurd could have known about them and her treatment of her former husbands). She couldn’t tell her father she was overwhelmingly horny when she saw a ruggedly handsome, unshaved, and scantily clad Gurd with his chiseled, heart-shaped mouth and full lips coming out of the Federal Building late that morning. Astarte couldn’t reveal she felt compelled to stop and make a ridiculously, recklessly lascivious pass at him. She could never disclose Gurd’s response was a complete and correct litany of her past love life followed by derisive laughter at the thought he would submit to similar treatment at her hands. Nor could she tell her father about bullfighter, Ethan Dewar, holding Gurd’s hand, smiling in an infuriatingly, possessively smug manner.  
Astarte stopped abruptly at the door to her father’s study. Her eyes flew over the framed photographs of the top bucking bulls bred at Heaven. Suffused with the red and orange light glaring through the stained-glass windows, her hair in disarray, Astarte’s gaze settled on a single image.  
“I want The Alien in the rodeo tonight,” she whispered harshly, suddenly inspired harpy-eyes blazing.  
“What the hell has that bull got to do with anything?” Buddy Joe asked snapping the cigar in two pieces with his teeth sputtering spraying tobacco. “You want somebody dead?”  
“Put him in if you don’t want all Hell to break loose!” Astarte seethed eyes flaming.  
#  
“Stop!” Ethan hissing grabbing Gurd’s wrists hot water from the shower streaming over them.  
“Your face is clean,” Ethan whispering lowering his hands to grip Gurd’s shoulders.  
“You’ll have to get it out of your head, not off your face,” Ethan murmuring, Gurd bowing his head hands over his face resting on Ethan’s shoulder as Ethan held him. “It’ll take some time, Gurd. Try to relax now. Try to think of a beginning, not the past.  
“Come here!” Ethan twisting off the water jerking Gurd from the shower pushing him in front of the mirror gripping him in towels.  
Ethan watching Gurd square his shoulders, raising his head examining his face in the mirror. The same face reflected in the obsidian mirror, Ethan thought, releasing Gurd. Gurd shocked to see him weep, face crumpling, head bowed, knuckles resting on the counter.  
“I need to relax,” Ethan mumbling through his tears, turning, embracing Gurd sliding to the floor with him in a heap of towels.  
“I’m so confused I don’t even understand what I’m saying, but I think we need to take a peaceful trip to the Netherworld together,” Ethan convulsing, trembling. “A vacation.”  
#  
Ethan knew something was wrong. His strict diet and yoga kept him in tune with his body, mind, and perceptive faculties. All three were telling him something wasn’t right with his health. He felt slightly feverish experiencing brief periods of dizziness accompanied by a slight blurring of vision. He thought the frightful ordeal in the underworld, and lack of food for more than twenty-four hours was responsible for his symptoms. His ribs still ached but the swelling in his fingers had subsided.  
“Here’s a recipe for aniseed cookies and one for gelato,” Gurd said quietly standing in the condo kitchen moments after they had been able to rise from the bathroom floor shakily handing Ethan two three-by-five cards. “Should be good with any liqueur. I’ll start on some Vietnamese recipes Mrs. Phan taught me.”  
“Got some appetizers we can nibble as we cuisinize?” Ethan rubbed his face with the towel draped over his head. He pitched it over a bronze in the dining room tightening the belt of his robe then the one on Gurd’s robe hugging him briefly eyes locking for a second.  
“There’s brie, Camembert, carrots, celery, mushrooms, and nuts,” Gurd replied, strolling between the Parisian-blue sofa and chairs to the music system making a selection. “I’m putting on some Bach organ toccatas sonatas and concertos. Mood music for documenting, preparing that skull for repatriation to American Indians.”  
“That’s the spirit!” Ethan exclaimed munching on walnuts and cashews pulling big bowls from the carved cabinets setting them on the limestone counter. “Wrap up the loose ends. Get it outta sight! Should we check on Sam? See if he wants to rodeo tonight?”  
“I’ll check,” Gurd said reaching for the wall phone next to the refrigerator speed dialing the clinic. He tucked it between chin and shoulder placing one hand on his free ear as Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” blared dramatically. He reached to kitchen control panel adjusting the volume.  
“Hello, Christine, how are you?” Gurd said. “Is Sam busy? Okay, please, ask him to call when he has the chance.  
“In surgery,” Gurd said easily, exhaling hard, pulling a bag of crushed ice from the freezer, a package of frozen scallops.  
“Gotta love the tough guy,” Ethan said smiling. With a conductor flourish, he whipped a big wooden spoon from a drawer.  
“Don’t know what I’d do without him,” Gurd serious, eyes smiling.  
#  
“Delicious!” Ethan proclaimed with another conductor flourish finishing his Amaretto gelato biting into an aniseed cookie. “No room left. Had too much fried rice and Cá! Cuôn! Ho!”  
By silent consent, their conversation over the late lunch was light the heavy lifting left for after the rodeo. With a kiss Ethan twirling with the music to the plush, leather sofa quickly falling into a doze wrapped in the indigo, Navajo blanket, head on a Georgia O’Keefe Blue Black and Grey pillow. Gurd turned down the volume to a whisper.  
Gurd brewed coffee, quietly washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen. He spent a few hours at the counter measuring photographing, filling out forms printed from his computer, and packing the skull recovered from the kiva for repatriation.  
“This is Gurd,” he said answering the phone on the first ring watching Ethan stretching. “Hey, Samwise. You alright? What’re your plans for tonight? Want to join us at the rodeo?  
“Okay,” Gurd said hanging his head parting his hair with his fingertips, sniffing, disappointed after a few moments listening. “Yeah, sure, can’t blame you. Sounds like a rough day. Sweet dreams. I love you, Sāman.  
“Sam’s calling an early night,” Gurd said sliding onto the sofa kissing Ethan lightly on the lips wrapping the blanket around them.  
“I’ve gotta a few chores to take care of before the ro-de-o,” Ethan rose, running his hand through Gurd’s hair releasing him reluctantly snuggling him into the blanket.  
Nodding and stretching Ethan assumed the pose, Lord of the Dance, calming his mind for the performance. When he was feeling composed, rested he retrieved his bullfighter duffle bag.  
He removed the obsidian knife Dama Cactus Granny had loaned him from its sheath in his bullfighter boot and the snake-skin strop. Tying one end of the strop to a ladder-back chair below the cow horn he began sharpening the blade while reading a national newspaper spread on the dining table.  
Satisfied with the sharpness, he walked to sit on the sofa where Gurd slept the blanket slipping from his smooth tanned shoulders his face more peacefully than Ethan had ever seen. He gently, thoughtfully caressed the bare, rising and falling chest and nipples with his fingertips.  
“I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of falling asleep again, of times of lucid sleep,” Gurd breathed softly waking to the sensation of Ethan’s hot hand on his chest, the sound of him coughing.  
“You feel hot,” Gurd commented softly gazing into his eyes. Placing the back of his hand against Ethan’s forehead, he caressed his temple and cheek.  
“And my throat is all scratchy,” Ethan replied hoarsely in a puerile manner, lips puckering. ‘Vulnerable’ visage. “Got lemon, honey, and green tea we can brew?”  
Gurd sat up, locking eyes with Ethan for a moment trying to gauge his physical wellbeing. He glanced down at the black knife puzzled surprised.  
“Yep, that’s sharp,” Gurd commented, noting the blade was bright from whetting. “Nice bone handle almost looks prehistoric.”  
Gurd rose walking to the kitchen, pouring bottled water in a saucepan. He gathered ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets, closely watching Ethan rise and walk to the closet.  
“I keep this in my boot while I’m in the arena in case a rider needs to have the bull rope cut if he can’t free his hand during a ride. Rag Doll they call it and I hate that phrase,” Ethan explained angrily, entering the closet in the big bathroom, returning the blade to its sheath in the boot, repacking his gear. “I was just sharpening it.”  
“Ever need to use it?” Gurd asked, dropping a tea bag into the mug.  
“Nope,” Ethan replied clearing his throat, sighing, strolling over behind Gurd to hug him. “There were a couple of times I came close, even though it’s against regulations. Those are the worst, most vivid memories of my career. When I think I need to help someone in pain and I can’t.”  
Laying his head on Gurd’s shoulder, Ethan sighed, coughing. Gurd poured the boiling water into the mug squeezing a teaspoon of lemon and a tablespoon of honey.  
“That’s the only anxiety I have going into a performance. I have to hide in my room after a rag-doll incident the fear of being helpless depresses me,” Ethan said when the coughing stopped, smiling ‘Cheery’, chuckling. “I’m not so handsome then.  
“Oh! Hey, look at this!” Ethan said pointing down at the newspaper on the counter. “We orchestrated that! It took almost a year to get them, but we did it!”  
Gurd read the article while stirring the tea placing his hand on the back of Ethan’s neck. The story reported the corruption of the regulatory agencies involved with the timber industry in the Pacific Northwest, and a private corporation illegally harvesting rare, tiger maple from the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State, selling the wood to a Japanese corporation.  
Gurd nodded, smiling as he read. The illegal activities might have transpired successfully, unnoticed if a certain madam administering a house of male geishas hadn’t received the bill of lading from the shipping company for the timber. She was expecting items from The U. S., but was so surprised by the price and dismayed at the product listing she contacted her legal counsel. She was equally confused the name of the shipper was the American who visited her honorable house several months earlier on a business trip.  
Her lawyer contacted the American, who was a wealthy businessman, deacon of his church, intricately connected to elected politicians in Washington State. The ensuing attempts to sort out the mistake became public in a big, international way.  
The Japanese buyers were very displeased to find out about the corruption of the system and were extremely vocal about the indignity and humiliation of being involved with such criminals, their loss of honor. They were threatening to come to America and do a little humiliating by demanding a congressional hearing. Gurd grinned, tightening his grip on Ethan’s neck shaking him, the look in his eyes conveying his admiration.  
“Surprising how a simple mistake can bring down the mighty. We should go after I finish this,” Ethan said blowing his nose on a paper towel, sipping the tea, inhaling deeply.  
“July Fourth! This is a good day to tell the story of the origin of the U. S. of A., and all it stands for, law and order!” Ethan said grinning cheerfully thumping the newspaper with his finger. “When we get back, we can celebrate with some more cookies and gelato! We can discuss everything we’ve been avoiding, all the things coming together to make a new you! A new me!”  
“Okay,” Gurd replied smiling, reaching up to his ear. “Help me get this earring off. Can’t remember the last time it was out.”  
#  
Stepping from the Jeep onto the parking lot reserved for performers at the arena, the fervor and enthusiasm in the air struck Ethan, lightning bolt to a rod. Excitement snapping into exhilaration, he stopped momentarily to take a pass from his pack handing it to Gurd.  
“This will get you a seat at the front of the arena near the chutes,” he said flicking his finger against the brim of Gurd’s Stetson.  
“You are hot in those tight jeans, T-shirt, and Stetson, that new beard, all black, shows off the tan. I bet there’ll be plenty of people hitting on you ‘cause you’re the hottest guy God ever made and the sweetest kid!” Ethan brimming cheerfully.  
“The damming stain… strain and tension have disappeared from your face and body and, Hallelujah! The true handsome, sensual Gurd is waltzing into public!” he whispered smiling, looking Gurd directly in the eye, leaning forward for a passionate kiss. “You can be your sweet, angelic self now. Your monster is dead.”  
“I love you,” Gurd said locking eyes with Ethan.  
“You better believe it,” Ethan returned with another long kiss, pulling back eye-to-eye. “I love you.”  
Ethan thought the kiss caused the volume of the murmur in the vicinity to rise. The sound of the voices lifting him like a rising wave sweeping him on to the locker room.  
Like the other performers, Ethan was superstitious about his preparations for a public appearance. He joined in the rowdy, superficial conversation among the men in the locker room while performing his rituals for dressing and applying makeup: britches and tank-top, left sock, right sock, pink tennis shoe, red boot (checking the knife) then makeup and hat, bandannas. Ethan’s energy and excitement affected everyone in the room inspiring laughter and jokes.  
July Fourth was the grand finale. The ten bull riders competing were the highest scorers from the previous nights. Ethan knew the bulls would be the rankest and meanest Honkers available. Walking toward the ring, he adjusted his protective vest, shirt, and suspenders grating against his skin the battered, straw hat irritating his scalp. At the gate to the ring, he shook his head to clear the dizziness.  
The arena was packed, the crowd was boisterous. When Ethan appeared, the eruption of audience cheers and laughter hit him like grabbing a live wire. Staggering slightly, he made his stumbling cartwheel and clumsy somersault look like a stunned reaction to their enthusiastic welcome. Throwing his hands in the air, he lifted his head with a wide-eyed, open-mouth, startled-baby expression, electrified by the adoration for the comical bullfighter, the hero of the bull rider.  
Ethan might have dealt with the overwhelming energy of adrenaline rushes surging within him simultaneously with the roars of the crowd the sight of the bull heaving from the chute if he wasn’t nagged by fever and pain. In the course of the night, teasing and taunting Honkers and Hookers, dealing with Bad Wrecks and Hang-ups, Ethan sensed the fever growing, the spells of dizziness intensifying the rapid-fire energy exploding into him draining ever more rapidly leaving him ravaged.  
Recognizing his attention was flagging, the acuity of his perception suddenly became feverishly surreal. His ears burned with the announcement of the tenth and last bull, The Alien, from Heaven, the Lagash Ranch. Feeling tired, achy, and sluggish, he glanced around trying to determine the positions of the two pickup men on their horses, the arena barrel, the other bullfighter, Jason. Ethan braced himself as the gate-man backed from the chute pulling the rope taut. Chester?  
The Alien was big for a Longhorn-Hereford. His horns were long and sharp, having the characteristic outward angle the up-curving tips. The Alien was red as drying blood. His solid, massive musculature impressive, lean Longhorn powerful tireless Hereford.  
Ethan’s hazy vision clearing briefly by the homicidal gleam in the bull’s eye glaring between the bars of the chute, The Alien possessed by the murderous, vengeful spirit of Elizardo. Looking down, Ethan was horrified to see the flank strap looped tight around the bull’s testicles. Glancing up, seeing among the busy, hunched men helping the cowboy get seated Astarte grinning demonically, pulling the strap tight.  
Ethan juggling hazy sensory perceptions with his mind’s confused interpretations. Some objects irrationally bright outlines unclear others unaccountably dark edges sharp. The speed of action nearby out of sync with background movements. The air oppressive feeling heavier than the buoyant earth underfoot. The volume of sound erratic the sound of the crowd tiny and tinny the scrape of the obsidian knife from sheath the roar of a jet taking off.  
Ethan realized the decision had been made to end his rodeo career killing the bull in the chute when he found himself running knife in hand. He arrived an instant too late knocked to the ground by the heavy gate swinging open. The distant sound of the audience roaring into thunder the hooves landing on either side of his head silent. Dust in eyes his hacking cough soundless.  
Instinct not waiting for his mind, Ethan struggled to his feet stabbing, dodging the high-kicking hooves. Thrusting ducking dancing rolling tumbling acrobatics any move keeping him within striking distance of the massive, heaving, dark target. Mind registering but disregarding all stimuli beyond the quarry, lariats bouncing off his shoulders, Jason grabbing at his vest, the announcer on the speaker, until he heard Gurd’s shout soaring above the roar.  
A brief pause crouching, assessing, gasping in the dust. Fury abating, tears welling at the sight of his worst fear.  
Dead Rag Doll.  
TOP destroying Man.  
The ground under bull swelling, pushing up from below. Earth violent buckling bucking, building trembling, glaring lights blinking. Earthquake or demon? Ethan desperately trying to focus.  
Audience-chorale soaring fearful, terrified. Breathless indecision, assessing the risks of getting tramped by other spectators if they attempted to flee, or being crushed by the falling ceiling. Can’t let them any of them get hurt Ethan trying to concentrate filter out the bombarding sensations of the crowd’s tension.  
Jason moving in swiftly, waving his hands, shouting, eyes wide, hat falling. Ethan charging, tripping, lunging off balance. The Alien rearing lifting his torso. The twisting supernatural wave rolling down through his airborne body then upward arching into a double kick high all hooves in the air swollen testicles bouncing. Rear hooves swerving out to the right at an impossible angle. The kick to his chest knocking Jason high back against the metal fence with an audible crunch of bones, body bounding from the railing, bouncing on the ground. Ethan jarred in his bones Jason screaming in his mind.  
The crowd growling, howling, cursing at the sight of Jason prone, face in the dirt, unmoving, the spectacle of the dead bull rider flying over the bull’s head dislocating the shoulder, his gloved hand trapped in the handle of the bull rope. Stumbling low across the ground, knife-hand weaving in front of him, Ethan keeping a steady eye on the bull. The cries from the crowd continuing soaring, roaring straining form the top of their lungs a shrieking Ode to Grief.  
Attempting a semblance of balance, Ethan plunged forward as the bull came down. Ethan fleetingly glimpsing Gurd over the bull’s back above the paramedics scrambling around Jason. He felt his fever break his head cooling, clearing. He was suddenly drenched with sweat grip on bone handle slippery wet.  
The Alien’s buck took him closer to Jason’s body and the stands further away from Ethan. The paramedics scattering. The chorale hitting shattering the rafters, a falling swelling tempest.  
The subsequent upward jolt of the bull’s flanks hit the cowboy’s body somersaulting it into a forward arc face up twisting the right arm 180 degrees. The cowboy’s right leg falling forcefully onto the tip of the bull’s right horn back-breaking horror. Ethan grimacing, grunting in disbelief pulling up sharply trying to decide on a way to maneuver into position to cut the rope stab the bull, watching the point of the horn ripping the skin and fabric of the jeans down to the foot, the tip of the horn lodging inside the boot. Grotesque macabre demonic torture assailing Ethan’s spirit, vision fading.  
The choral screams and gasps of horror to a newer higher fever pitch. One pickup man’s twirling rope singing across Ethan’s path trying to get The Alien’s rear hooves. Ethan knew the bull’s head and horns could not be their target now.  
Dodging the surging horse, Ethan dove in close to the heaving, twisting Alien, swinging at the bull rope with his knife. The tough rope deflecting the edge slipping sideways down the ribs. The Alien bellowing turning to his left trying to hook Ethan with his left horn. Ethan gliding back away the blade scraping along loins slitting the scrotum. The bull’s unearthly roar rising solo above the screaming horde. Ethan quickly backing tumbling away from the madly jerking head, horns blurring swinging with supernatural speed the arms of a ferocious, furious boxer. The Alien turning on him Ethan toppling, rolling, head-over-heels tumbling to his right.  
Staggering to his feet, Ethan felt desperately tired, disoriented by the screaming crowd, the flying dirt, the cowboy’s flying blood striking his face, sweat smearing his vision. Feeling a thunderous weight in his head dragging him down, barely avoiding the bull’s circling twirling charge slashing horns. The momentum of his backward dodge causing Ethan to lose his balance falling to the ground on his back rolling, bouncing into a clumsy back hand-spring, pain stabbing his wrist and ribs. Rage gripping his face smothering him gasping heart racing.  
The earth beneath Ethan trembling as he landed on his feet knife in hand hat on the ground. He sensed the dirt slipping away downward on his left. The Alien circling twisting the tip of a horn ripping into Ethan’s right ear grazing his scalp. He fell hard, flat on his back, head bouncing, huge, blinding overhead lights dimming, time slowing. A slim crack opening in the ground near his head the insidious sound of an hourglass hot sandy earth slipping into the Netherworld louder than the screaming howling chorale. The Alien twisting slowly around slinging blood, dripping snot, saliva, breath hot on Ethan’s face.  
Amidst the flying dust mingling with the steam of friction between dimensions, Ethan glimpsed a long, red, forked tongue languidly flicking from the crack, retracting back underground. Time creeping on the verge of standing still, Ethan watching the tongue withdraw, an instant replay the motion languid, confident, measured beckoning taunting.  
Enraged at his clumsiness and dwindling strength, terrified at the thought of The Alien coming into contact with the Netherworld bull, Ethan jabbed the knife at the bull’s heaving chest, stabbing repeatedly. The blade a bee sting. The Alien bellowing angrily, twirling, bucking back to his right flinging dirt. Time froze the ghastly spectacle of the cowboy’s bloody, battered, nightmare-face bobbing into Ethan’s sight.  
Time picking up at a snail’s pace. The distorted, angry, guttural drone of the crowd, an avalanche deafening him pressing him. Dust from the ground twirling sparkling hot vapors from below sluggishly rolling, surging bile choking Ethan. Blinding snot, saliva, sweat, blood a mask smearing his face blurring the bog lights into pinpoint stars in the dark swirl.  
In his foggy peripheral vision, Ethan watched the gleaming, scarlet tongue flicking from the crevasse, quivering, tasting the air. Flicking out of sight. The earth rose with the emergence of the tip of a glittering, scarlet horn near Ethan’s ear. The earth fell with a thump and a cloud of dust as it disappeared underground. The Alien’s swinging hoof clipping Ethan’s nose bringing tears to his eyes, sweat pouring, the sound of his rasping breath louder the smell of the bull’s sweat the cowboy’s blood ranker.  
An unnaturally slow, high, twisting, maniacal buck brought the Alien’s front hooves down on either side of Ethan grazing his waist. The earth bucked again knocking the back of his head. Dirt shifting dust sucking, swirling into the hot, gleaming widening crevasse. The Alien’s left hoof shifting, gliding downward, his neck arching down, head lowering to crush Ethan. Twisting to his side Ethan briefly glimpsed the flaming, scarlet bull glaring up at him with its terrifying, glistening white eyes from the depths of the Netherworld. Consciousness slipping away Ethan’s head sliding toward the opening, The Alien’s hot breath blowing, caressing his hair stinging sweat trickling into his eyes. The thunder of the crowd beating numbing his mind.  
A transparent, black Shadow a twinkling, gossamer cloth languidly falling across the radiant, scarlet horn. Breathless, chorale silent, pinpoint stars blinking out. Ethan staring through the suffocating, dripping mask his rasping breath stirring, shifting the fabric a Shade in the Underworld. The shape of the glistening Shadow more distinct against the brightness of the emerging horn. The folds and creases clearer, taking form. A huge lion’s paw dark filaments of hair black fingers extending between the glistening, vulture claws gripping the horn. The hand and the horn trembling, straining sinking slowly, slowly into the earth the crevasse snapping shut.  
Time jerking simultaneously with the jolting earth Ethan turning, twisting grabbing the knife with both hands lifting arms to stab The Alien in the left eye. Taking a deep breath, Ethan grasped the hilt twisting plunging the knife to the hilt. Looking the bull in the right eye. The chorale soaring. Blood gushing. The bull lurching upward. Ethan gripping the knife with both bloody hands. Breathless, muscles, and veins bulging with the strain, he was raised onto his feet as the bull reared a fountain of blood. Over the bull’s back, Ethan saw the pickup man backing away, the rope taut around one of The Aliens rear hooves, the horse straining.  
The Alien thrashed left and right swinging Ethan a rag doll, shuddering, groaning, and collapsing on its side. Gasping, dripping, on his knees, Ethan felt the blade snapping. He remained rigid for a moment the unceasing thundering applause of relief the cheering adoration a sweeping landslide from all directions holding him upright. Covered with blood, sweat, and dirt, wobbling and staggering swinging the broken knife in his glistening, red hands bright under the glaring lights. His emerald eyes staring full and wild in the grotesque, murky, vermillion mask. The Alien’s head jerking sending a horn to Ethan’s chest. Staggering back, falling forward to his knees stabbing the groaning bull in the neck, the head, the nose with the jagged remnants of obsidian.  
Weeping uncontrollably, Ethan stabbed the earth driving the hilt into the ground. He jerked the cowboy’s boot off the quivering horn freeing the limp body. He heard Gurd howling his name. Still wobbling, crazed with grief, weariness, pain, and the horror of the incident Ethan mindlessly retrieved the bone handle, collapsing across the bull, sawing furiously at the rope, pulling back, grabbing the bull by the horn, ripping off the right ear with the last fragment of the blade shattering. Oblivious, heedlessly he pitched the ear wildly high to his left above the crowd of veterinarians and medics continuing to rush to assist Jason and the dead cowboy.  
Through his tears, Ethan glimpsed Gurd shouldering through the rush. He felt Gurd catching him in his arms.  
“We came so close,” Ethan grinned broadly, feeling Gurd desperately wiping the gore from Ethan’s nose and mouth with a bandanna.  
“Went so far. Too tired. Gotta leave you now,” he murmured as Gurd was roughly pushed away by medics.  
As he was lifted on the stretcher, Ethan silently wept, tears of joy coursing through the mask of gore. Imagining he was surfing the wave of laughter and cheers on the hands of his swaying audience around the arena.

Chapter Thirty-Five  
Evidence Bags and Endocrine System

“Damn Sam Hat!” Ethan yelled stridently from his hospital bed as though he wanted everyone in the building to hear. “He turned the key locking me into this dead-end chain of events!”  
Gurd recoiled from the side of the bed in surprise at the profanity and shock at the vehemence. He pinched the bridge at the mask over his nose and mouth as the door opened revealing a policeman with a stern, quizzical expression.  
“Hantavirus!” Ethan howled glaring at the medical apparatus and scores of bright flower bouquets. “Do you know what the survival rate for that is? Sam Hat led me to my death! Damn him!”  
In the hall, Agent Dumuntzi strolled into view staring into the room. Taking a piece of gum from his coat pocket, Sherman unwrapped it popping it into his mouth, chewing glaring at Ethan and Gurd. Sam peeked around the edge of the door. Sherman reached for the door handle swinging the door shut.  
“I told you he was Astarte’s first husband didn’t I,” Ethan whispered ‘Outrage’ fading from his face, smiling. “He’s Russian, and all this murder and mayhem around here is raising some questions about his father’s connection with the Lagashs, and Dumuntzi’s old man’s potential involvement in illegal war profiteering, money laundering. Things in New Mexico may be getting on the road to a big correction, getting back in balance, some equilibrium restored. The bull is dead, right? Is the fire contained? I’ve still gotta save a damsel in distress!”  
“Ethan,” Gurd said, anger briefly flaring at the word Russian, “you’ve got a fever. They’re still not positive it’s Hantavirus. The test results aren’t back yet.  
“Please don’t blame Sam,” Gurd said gently moving Ethan’s hand away from the IV needle and tape. “He brought you to me. You were in my dreams. He believed you could change my life for the better, and you have. Sam did it for me. Yes, the bull is dead. No the fire is not contained.  
“Blame me,” Gurd said kneeling by the bed tears in the dark blue eyes, holding Ethan’s hand in both of his. “I’m the one to blame if anyone is. You probably got the virus from the rodent remains in the kiva excavation.”  
“The powers that be, the ones who made us are the ones to blame like Brónach-tarbh said,” Ethan replied softly, locking eyes with Gurd. “We’re just pawns like he said.”  
Turning his eyes to the ceiling, Ethan helplessly floundered in his sea of depression feeling himself twirling down a whirlpool into the black depths. He thought all the patient, calculating, exhausting effort devoted to developing his algorithms to obstruct TOP in their degradation of the environment might come to an end and Burl had barely begun his research into AI. All because he’d finally let his emotions, the domain of allowable errors, get the better of him. He turned his gaze back to Gurd.  
“Those guys have my computer?” Ethan whispering biting his lower lip.  
Gurd sighed, nodding trying to decide if Ethan’s eyes were bright with anxiety or glee. He wrestled with what to say, or how to act with a feverish, babbling Ethan hopping from subject to subject.  
“It will all fry the moment anyone tampers with it,” Ethan’s voice monotone ‘Conspirator’ painted on his face. “Burl fixed them.  
“You’re right,” Ethan said abruptly in a hollow tone, expression thoughtful. “Ask Sam to come in alone. I want to apologize. He probably heard what I said if he’s been standing out there. Be sure he has a pen.  
“Wait! Where are my clothes, my pack?” voice quavering, rising slightly on one elbow as Gurd pointed to the closet.  
“Get one of my bandannas will you please? And that red pill vial,” Ethan croaked clearing his throat reaching for the water bottle on the table next to the bed.  
“Thanks, Hurdy Gurdy,” he said softly when Gurd retrieved a dark blue bandanna and the vial. “Now bend down here. Are all these flowers from fans?”  
“Yeah,” Gurd trying to smile blinking.  
“I will always love you,” kissing Gurd’s hand.  
Ethan lightly wiped the droplets from the dark lashes when Gurd closed his eyes holding back tears. Ethan’s depression savagely stung him as he folded the bandanna into Gurd’s shirt pocket.  
Gurd stared into Ethan’s eyes for a long moment. Ethan struggled to remain steady smiling slightly. Gurd rose from his knees, composing his face, walking to the door, opening and closing it behind him. Frowning, Ethan opened the pill case popping the last three tiny pellets into his mouth. A moment later a cautious Sam entered slipping on his safety mask.  
“I’m sorry Sam, I apologize,” Ethan said quietly, sinking deeper, the blackness closing, pantomiming writing with both hands lowering his voice to a whisper as Sam drew closer. “You know too much, but Gurd doesn’t know anything. We need to keep it that way.”  
Sam handed him the pen and prescription pad from his shirt pocket. Ethan took them writing phone numbers.  
“You need to reach one of these guys. Most important tell them about the warrant for my fingerprints and DNA,” Ethan whispered urgently. “Introduce yourself as Sasquatch, that’s important. Don’t use your cell, home or office phones, and destroy this when you’re done,” Ethan sighing eyes closing sinking to stinging oblivion.  
Sam paused outside the room explaining Ethan apologized. He waited a minute more for the indifferent expressions on the faces of agent Dumuntzi and the officer to fade into neutral boredom at having to wait for Ethan’s condition to improve before continuing their questioning and guarding against any escape attempt.  
Sam’s excuse for his departure as Gurd returned to the room was he needed to return to work. Once outside the hospital, he searched for change and a payphone.  
“My God man!” the pretty, young waitress gruffly in hushed tones scribbling her phone number on her order pad tearing off the page tenderly pressing it into his hands with all her change. “How gorgeous are you without the bandages? Call me if you need anything.”  
The man who answered Sam’s first call sounded young, businesslike. The guy calmly asked Sam a series of questions to be sure he understood all Sam told him. The man at the end of the line on the second call seemed elderly, suspicious asking more questions. The voice of the person who responded to the third call was all too familiar.  
“Dama?” Sam began hesitantly, “Ethan must have given me this number by mistake.”  
“I doubt that,” Billie replied in a quiet, solemn manner.  
#  
“Gurd, you need to eat something,” Sam said gently the next morning sitting in Ethan’s room. “You haven’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. You haven’t slept.”  
“I can’t sleep, wish I could,” Gurd responded voice pinched considering the last time he was in a hospital with someone on the brink of death.  
Raising his head, Gurd released Ethan’s hand, rubbing his face and eyes, passing his hand over his black hair checking the part, gripping his head with both hands. The depths of desolation in his heart was close to decimating his body as well as deranging his mind.  
A physician entered the room. After glancing at the sleeping patient, Gurd’s gaunt eyes above his mask, and the young man standing next to him, the doctor examined the chart. Masked agent Dumuntzi, carrying a warrant, entered the room with a masked policeman.  
Gurd stood, grimly stepping away from the bed with Sam. Despite the doctor’s strenuous objections, the policeman took photographs as Dumuntzi slipped on surgical gloves following the strict protocol for collecting Ethan’s fingerprints and DNA. They placed everything they collected in sealed evidence bags.  
“I’m sorry,” the physician voice eyes apologetic addressing Gurd softly after the two men departed, “we need to move Mr. Dewar to intensive care. You can check there for visiting hours, but the remainder of the day is out of the question.”  
Sam wiped Gurd’s face and hands with a sterilizing solution, arm around his shoulders as they walked into the hall. They stood there several minutes, Gurd’s head on Sam’s shoulder until the doctor and nurse rolled the gurney out and away down the corridor.  
Reading a book in the waiting area, Neve looked up as Gurd and Sam entered the room holding hands. She closed the book dropping it in her briefcase glancing from her son to Sam.  
“He’s been taken to the ICU,” Sam explained, pain and worry in his hazel eyes. “Can’t have visitors until tomorrow.”  
“Come home with me for the night, son,” Neve suggested standing, holding Gurd’s hand. “Anne will cook your favorites, you can shower and rest there. You too Sam, you can drive Gurd home.”  
#  
I was sitting in the shade of the courtyard colonnade of the Karabaldo hacienda within the hour after leaving Gurd and Neve at her home. Dama was wearing a simple, long-sleeve floor-length, black day-dress with a black mantilla draped over her hair and around her neck. The household somber and quiet in mourning for Felipé. The bright, courtyard roses, chrysanthemums, and marigolds seemed somber under the hot sun.  
“You know too much, Sam,” Dama said quietly lacing her black moccasins, leaning back to gather a pair of black cotton gloves from the table by the chair.  
“A few more things I will tell you,” she whispered confidentially, pulling on her gloves. “I’ve known Ethan and worked as a Carousel agent for seven years.  
“I thought I knew just about everything there was to know about you,” quietly amazed she could have kept such a big part of her life secret from me.  
I removed my straw hat and leaned back in my chair stretching my legs crossed at ankles. Too hot for jeans, I was in shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. Briefly watching the puppies playing in the shade, I laced my fingers lowering my hands to my waist. Head against the back of the chair eyes on Dama, listening to her mellow voice.  
“All our agents, both men, and women are cross-dressers and pretty good at acting. We have to be because we need to deal with a mind-boggling number,” she said rolling her big doe eyes, eyeliner heavy but no other makeup, “of state and national agencies, landowners, institutions like banks, investigative reporters, publications, lawyers, and power brokers of various types. We have to sincerely, earnestly believe in the company motto—‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere’—or we could never do what Ethan requires of us, what we require of ourselves.”  
Dama smiled, leaning to press the tape on my bandaged eye, rising, fitting a black straw hat with a broad rim on her head. She lifted a basket containing water bottles, a paring knife, short pencils, and several small paper envelopes from the table.  
“Now we must gather a few herbs that will keep you and handsome Gurd out of prison,” she said, confident reassuring.  
Reluctantly rising after settling so comfortably, I put on my hat and walked with her. Crossing the courtyard, I opened the gates leading into the hot, sunny garden at the back of the house. After I latched the gate, Dama handed me the basket, lifting the hem of her skirt with both hands.  
“Einstein once said the person who could control electromagnetism could control the world,” Billie said strolling down the garden path skirting the tall corn stalks and vines of squash to the river turning left. The narrow, river trail lined with daylilies glistening in the sunlight.  
“I say the person who understands the human endocrine system will control Earth at the very least,” Dama smiled glancing beneath the brim of her hat sideways at me returning her attention to the path. “There are dozens of human hormones identified so far, Sam. Others remain to be discovered. The pituitary gland, endocrine system, and all its hormones are the key to human physiology and the brain, possibly the mind.”  
Dama halted, lowering her hem when we arrived at an outcropping of boulders at the edge of the murmuring river. An herb with a profusion of lavender and pearl-gray heart-shaped leaves sprouted among the stones and moss. Dama turned her head to look up at the sun and back to the plants.  
“We’ll collect several leaves and roots today,” Dama said matter-of-factly, sitting on a boulder, looking at the swirling current of the river then at me, “as ingredients for a tea that will calm your emotions, and permit you and Gurd to pass lie detector and voice stress tests. I’ll teach you how to brew it. You’ll be questioned about your injuries. A fall from Bashful maybe?”  
“But Gurd doesn’t know anything,” earnestly, crouching close to her, setting the basket on the ground. I dipped my fingers into the bag of trail mix in my shorts pocket.  
“He may not know anything, Sam,” Dama responded with a steady, level gaze plucking chocolate chips from the mound on my palm, “but he has reason to strongly suspect things, which is just as bad.  
“You and Gurd had no foreknowledge of Ethan’s actions,” Billie said eyebrows pulling together, eyes direct. “Gurd probably doesn’t feel guilty of complicity, and I’m guessing you don’t either. However, Christians in America are truly remarkable at creating a system of laws that permit and compel them all to feel guilty twenty-four, seven. They’re very good at making other people feel guilty. Christians involved in the law enforcement industry are particularly, especially good at it, and that’s what we need to guard against.”  
“Has Ethan always been a dangerous psycho?” concerned, turning my eyes to watch the river roll by, the slight breeze in the lower branches. “Will his mania help him pass a lie detector?”  
“To your first question, it may be hard to believe, but, no,” Billie replied eyes reflective settling on the rippling water. “Ethan is terribly frustrated with the New Mexico algorithm. His inability to identify effective ways Carousel can make an adverse impact on those people and companies who aren’t environmentally friendly in the state.  
“You sincerely and genuinely want to heal people and animals, Sam,” Dama said affectionately, touch of a smile, eyes moist. I retrieved another handful of mix, the chocolate melting. “Ethan has the same depth of feeling about the natural environment and wild animals. He has spent many years methodically developing and revising sophisticated algorithms revealing the times and places for him to take action. He has exercised extreme discipline and patience in executing those risky actions against corporations to promote environmental justice. The one thing that makes Ethan nearly uncontrollably angry is an injustice of any sort, so the personal restraint he’s demonstrated over the years has been Herculean.  
“As fortune would have it,” Billie sighing, corners of her mouth turning down, searching for chocolate in the mound spilling from my palm. “Ethan was recently deeply disturbed, depressed when he found a boy abandoned near death out in the Cibola forest. He’s been distraught over the Las Conchas fire.  
“Ethan’s becoming reckless in his mission, less professional,” Dama murmured thoughtfully eyes unfocused. “I believe he will learn a lesson from the mistake he’s making. He’ll pay a high price. He may be forced to move Carousel out of the country, but I think he’ll learn for his blunder.  
“To the second question,” Billie said turning her focused, direct gaze to me. “Ethan will fake his death before they can question him. All that will remain will be the doctor’s report, the coroner’s report, the records from the crematorium, and ashes in an urn. Believe me, he has the means to do that successfully. Now you know way too much.”  
Dama was lowering her voice as she spoke, ending in a whisper. She held her hand out for silence in response to my expression of growing concern. Eyes sparkling, she smiled my wide eyes, slack face full mouth.  
“To the real question in your heart. Gurd’s future lies with you, Sāman,” she said gently, eyes soft, smile broadening as I resumed chewing my mouthful.  
“Gurd identifies with who he is. He will eventually understand and accept his past when his PTSD symptoms fade away, he’ll change, develop,” Dama said solemnly holding my gaze the broad brim of her hat slightly fluttering in the river breeze.  
“On the other hand,” Dama continued sighing, raising her chin, eyebrows arching. “Ethan’s identity is totally wrapped up in what he does. He will not change even though he’s momentarily careening off course. Ethan’s bipolar disorder will always be a part of him. I believe, given the choice of a miraculous cure and remaining the same, Ethan would prefer the kinks of his disorder.  
“You know Gurd better than Ethan does,” Dama said reassuringly, “but Ethan understands Gurd better than you do. That’s a mystery only Gurd can explain to you when the time is right for him.”  
I nodded, eyes flickering to the river. Elbow on my knee, right cheek resting on my fist, I turned my eyes to Dama. Without her advice over the years, I might have given up on Gurd long ago.  
“You have used the correct tact over the years in trying to convince Gurd he’s a good person,” Dama said softly, gently placing her hand against my left cheek, “but it took someone like Ethan to reinforce or confirm that sentiment. Gurd needed someone with the shared experiences Ethan has to help him make that step to commit to healing himself. Gurd will need someone with your patience to help with his new beginning.  
“Gurd’s recovery from PTSD will be a life-long challenge,” Billie explained eyes intent on me. “Ethan loves Gurd, but Ethan could never commit himself to that challenge. Ethan would have to give up Carousel for Gurd.  
“You’ve been patient for ten years, Sam,” she said smiling tenderly eyes glittering. “Be patient a little longer.  
“Would you care to attend a born-again, evangelical revival with me Thursday?” Billie asked eyebrows arching inquisitively, gaze mischievous. “The stars predict an uncommon spectacle.”

Chapter Thirth-Six  
Grief and Fortune

“My life is a mystery,” Gurd muttered that night lying spread-eagle on his back on his bed in his mother’s home.  
I lay with my head on his chest listening to his heartbeat. My eyes wandered over the colorful, framed photographs of colossal, Egyptian statuary Gurd took on his camera when he was young. Egyptian weavings on the bed and chairs, Ethiopian baskets, and Sudanese carvings on the bookshelves. All things from the Nile Valley Gurd explained.  
Most fascinating to me were the three unframed images of the ancient Egyptian scroll, Papyrus of Ani. The colorful illustrations and cursive hieroglyphic text were instructions for the deceased man, Ani. The equivalent of an individualized Book of the Dead, Gurd clarified for me. The ibis-headed, god, Thoth, in the underworld weighing the heart of Ani on the scales of balance against the weight of a feather. The jackal-headed god, Anubis standing as witness.  
“It’s a mystery how I’m even still alive,” Gurd mused in quiet tones, eyes unfocused. “I’d be dead if Thamade hadn’t taught me how to defend myself. I’d be dead if you hadn’t prevented me from killing myself. I’d be dead if Ethan hadn’t come into my life.”  
“Hmm,” content, ignoring my various pains and itches. I had removed the dressing from my face but the cornea was red as a setting summer sun.  
“The biggest mystery,” Gurd pulling me up, twisting to his side our heads resting on a pillow. On the softly rustling sheets, he gently cupped my face in his hands, gazing up into my eyes, “is how I’ve kept my love for you bottled away inside all this time. Unconscious of it.”  
“Ethan has un-bottled a lot of you,” murmuring, smiling happily, embracing him, holding back my happy tears.  
“Yeah, and I’ll always love him for that,” Gurd replied, exhaling forcefully, briefly closing his eyes. He passed a hand over his forehead sweeping away sprigs of hair returning his hand and eyes to my face.  
“Me too. I’ve never been in your mother’s home,” warmly, inhaling his scent, running my fingers through the thick, dark hair. “It’s time for a haircut.”  
“I’ve asked you,” Gurd said holding my gaze. He delicately stroked my cheek with the back of his hand, fingertips circling my damaged eye.  
“True, but your mother never invited me,” hesitantly, eyes steady holding his gaze.  
“I think she’s been conflicted,” he whispered confidentially brows slightly arched, his fingers gliding down gently caressing my neck.  
“Oh?” tone encouraging, mouth partially open inquiringly.  
“On the one hand she’s grateful to have someone so much like herself she believes can take proper care of me,” Gurd grinned a flash of perfect teeth, shifting to deadpan. “On the other hand, she doesn’t want to hand me over.  
“I want to move out of the condo, live with you,” Gurd sighed eyes resolute, decisive, a brief kiss. “My nightmares may go away now. I won’t be such a burden to have around.”  
“You need to sleep,” pitch low, affectionate, eyes moist. “When you’re ready come on over.”  
“Sāman, why have you never told me you love me?” sapphire eyes searching, serious.  
“Because I love you, Gurdjieff,” whispering, cautious, light smile, and arching eyebrows inquisitive. “Do you remember telling me in the past your reactions when someone professed their love for you?”  
Gurd’s eyes darting past me, distant. He nodded. His gaze flickered back to me. His thoughts returning to Ethan.  
“Ethan is a ridiculous, exasperating guy,” Gurd said, another loud sigh. I could see in his eyes he was reliving his experiences with Ethan, things heavy on his mind. “You realize he cares nothing about the environment? If he ever did, he doesn’t anymore.”  
“Ethan doesn’t have values, paradoxically he’s uncanny at instilling values in others,” earnestly, easing away from him slightly as Gurd moved to rest his left palm on my chest right arm under me.  
“He’s an extremely wealthy jokester,” voice firm, eyes steady, chin thrusting, reaching for my phone. “Anticipating and experiencing comedy are his goals. Laughs, adrenal rushes, hormonal highs. Environmental justice is merely an agent, an avenue for achieving his goals.”  
“Does Dama understand any of this?” Gurd asked brows knitting head tilting down.  
“I don’t think so,” uneasily, shaking my head. “I’ll never broach the subject. I believe Dama and everybody who works for Ethan reveres him.”  
I shifted to relieve the pressure of my ribs against the bed. I opened the file with the photos of Ethan by the pool in the Santa Forest turning the screen for Gurd to see.  
“He is bizarre,” Gurd said mouth turned down briefly.  
Gurd unsnapped the horsehair bracelet. He pitched it to the dresser. He smiled as I flipped through the images of Ethan.  
Hands on my chest, Gurd told me everything from their experiences in bed, their discussions, and plans for collaboration on Gurd’s dissertation and Ethan’s algorithms. He whispered his suspicions about Ethan’s involvement in the deaths. The interviews with law enforcement. He explained the transference of spirits between the living and the dying. Hasammeli’s energizing gold, obsidian mirrors. He relived the excavations at the site on the Karabaldo property, the toppling cottonwood. He narrated their trip to the Netherworld, the descriptions of Brónach-tarbh, Psycho Pomp, Gobhar-làn, the Elizardo-bull. The encounter with Astarte on the Federal Building parking lot and the events at the rodeo. Gurd wept a little and laughed a lot, the faces of tragedy and comedy. I could see it was cathartic for him, but the narrative enlivened him plunging him into a deeply contemplative mood.  
I could see Gurd needed to sleep. I understood he wanted to get to the Netherworld possibly finding a cure for Ethan. Sleep just would not come. For the first time in the ten years we shared our lives and beds Gurd held me in his arms like never before. When he suddenly shivered as he did during and after a physical orgasm, I realized Love had finally happened. For the first time in ten years, Gurd watched me fall asleep.  
#  
The following morning we were told Ethan expired during the night. His body had been flown back to his home in Northern California for cremation. In the soundproof room provided for survivors, Gurd howled.  
Holding Ethan’s dark blue bandanna over his face, Gurd wailed. Face distorted, he beat the wall with his fist, sinking to his knees muttering, pounding the floor. Finally, Gurd curled into a fetal position silent, immovably prostrate with grief for an hour. Watching Gurd’s anguish was as disturbing as enduring one of his PTSD episodes. I wanted to hold him, but his mother was at his side.  
Neve, who looked miserably helpless and inadequate to deal with her son’s grief, sat on the floor by his side her hand on Gurd’s forehead. She was dressed as I was in jeans, white shirt, tennis shoes, graying hair in a bun. Neve would have looked elegant, regal in a burlap bag.  
Neve asked me to arrange for Gurd to be transferred to a bed in a private room. A half-hour later, I silently watched her remove her shoes and pace restlessly in the room after a doctor examined him and she was satisfied Gurd was comfortably sedated in bed.  
“As fortune would have it, Sam,” Neve spoke quietly in a dispassionate, hopeless manner gazing down at her hands grasp at her waist, “I was unable to be with Gurd during the period an infant needs his mother the most to give him the foundation for a healthy emotional life. Ten years after his birth I left him in the care of his father and Thamade. The following ten years, he endured deadly attacks causing him to experience depression, anger, terrible flashbacks, and nightmares. Then Thamade, the one person Gurd trusted the most, was murdered. Now Ethan, the only person my son ever loved, has died.  
“As fortune would have it,” she repeated wearily, shaking her head sitting in the chair next to me.  
Neve and I got to know each other in that room better than we had in the last ten years. Inevitably she returned to the subject of Gurd’s birth and how her absence during those first critical weeks of his life would always be a burden to her. As best as I could, I attempted to console her from the perspective of my Hindu philosophy explaining ‘fortune’ in Eastern terms of reincarnation and karma.  
Watching me appraisingly, Neve asked a few surprisingly perceptive, astute questions as a bright student in a classroom might. I believe she took my words to heart and would give them some further, serious thought. I think she might begin to give me some serious thought.  
“Call me if you need me,” she said that evening slipping on her shoes, kissing me on the forehead, leaving me with her son.  
Gurd looked naked as a newborn babe in the hospital bed without his mother, without the earring and bracelet. I stood by his bed placing my hand gently on his brow.  
#  
“Sāman,” Gurd muttered in his sleep hours later.  
“I’m here, Gurdjieff,” voice firm, reassuring.  
“It’s not fair,” Gurd murmured, waking amid the tumble of sheets and pillows.  
I knelt by the bed my hands on his chest. His heartbeat quickened a little.  
“It’s not fair,” he repeated, reaching out sleepily to stroke my hair. His fingertips circling my bruised eye trailing down my cheek tenderly softly caressing my neck.  
“The way I’ve treated you, Sāman. I’ll always love you,” Gurd whispered gazing at me with those beautiful eyes the color of Kashmir sapphires. “Can you forgive me?  
“Get in here with me,” Gurd said holding the bedding up for me as I slipped into bed with him seeming shy, embarrassed of his own erection. “You can tell me the story of us before I knew we had one.”  
Gurd held me in his arms firmly, lovingly. Tough guy that I am, I could no longer hold back my tears.

Chapter Thirty-Seven  
Justice

Buddy Joe was in a daze during his interviews on Tuesday and Wednesday with various law enforcement agencies. However, afterward, he and Linda Jo spoke clearly and succinctly to reporters about the allegations brought against them. They resolutely presented themselves as self-righteous victims of gross injustice, an evil conspiracy bent on destroying them and their efforts to bring God into the homes of people too frail to get out to church, or too impoverished to afford a means of transportation.  
“Let us pray for the revelation of the identity of the person, or persons behind this conspiracy to defame me and my good wife,” Buddy Joe solemnly intoned bowing his head at the conclusion of the first press conference. Silently, vehemently to himself, he prayed, “May God strike down Ethan Dewar into Hell!”  
Buddy Joe had observed many hypocritical, religious, conservative individuals in the public eye successfully employ the tactic of proclaiming to be the victim to buy time. Nonetheless, alone behind closed doors, the Colonel was having a hard time reconciling his version of his predicament with the undeniable facts as these were presented to him by law enforcement officers.  
Late Thursday, weary of cavorting, growling, playing soldier-on-battlefield for the benefit of the miniature, bandolier-laden, horned demons, no longer watching with expressions of shock and awe, Buddy Joe slumped onto a leather sofa. Facing the targets at the east end of the shooting gallery with an assault weapon in left hand. Fuming angrily, Buddy Joe glared at a few of the reclining demons tootling idly on their panpipes in a bored fashion, others smirking and cavorting in an irritatingly imitative manner.  
Buddy Joe intended to bolster his resolve to stand up to the ridiculous accusations against his character by shooting up the gallery pumping it full of gun smoke, drinking scotch, and snorting cocaine. He utterly, thoroughly failed. Now, rather than emboldened, his tensions and anxieties began to build. Sitting in his skivvies and socks, he contemplated his navel and the scattered photographs of bloody battles considering a strategy for winning the war he must wage against his enemies.  
The building was virtually soundproof, but suddenly Buddy Joe was sure he heard the two big Rottweilers barking savagely outside the door on the south side. He glanced over his right shoulder in that direction and then around to the north door, but could see neither, both entrances outside his range of vision in the recesses of small foyers.  
Releasing his grip on the rifle, Buddy Joe retrieved the antique, nickel-plated Colt forty-five with the mother-of-pearl handle from a table within reach. He was sure the door locked when it closed after he came in, but he couldn’t remember setting the deadbolt or resetting the alarm system after entering. When the Colonel noticed all the little freakish, nightmarish demons abruptly turning their attention eagerly to the increasingly loud barking he was seized with fear.  
Sitting erect extending his right arm along the back of the sofa, Buddy Joe detected a tiny, hesitant yet methodical, metallic clicking at the south door. It seemed to him much more pronounced than the rabid barking and growling of the dogs. He looked over at the phone on the counter not far behind the sofa. He started to rise from his seated position just as the south door swung open against the wall with a loud bang. The pungent odor of skunk and insane cackling erupting into the room.  
One of the snarling Rottweilers bounded in turning to face the door. All the ghastly, little demons instantly fled in horror, panpipes shrill as sirens. A pitchfork rocketed into the room with such force all the tines drove into the end of the counter making the wooden handle quiver. Buddy Joe’s gut was beginning to grumble and tumble in terror. He pointed the shaking barrel of the Colt at the foyer, the sound of scuffling and muffled growling like the second dog was gripping something in its mouth.  
Buddy Joe would have fired instantly at the first thing to come into sight but was momentarily too astonished to see what appeared to be a mangled, pink bat flutter into view. It twirled toward the ceiling on a wave of skunk musk and another burst of demented cackling. He unloaded one round hitting the bloody thing. It plummeted backward by the impact of the bullet and splattered against the wall remaining there as though impaled. The dogs howling and growling, skunk musk heavy.  
The colonel let loose another round hitting a second, similar flying object almost immediately following the first. The cigar fell from his clenched teeth. He froze with horror, recalling the times he instigated similar scenes of using parts from dead combatants for target practice after a battle.  
A huge and extremely hairy leg like a gorilla’s extended from the foyer into view. It lifted, twirling at the ankle as though to show off the glittering, stout, pink pump on the foot. Growling and wriggling furiously, the eighty-pound Rottweiler clamped onto the calf.  
Buddy Joe fired off two more rounds. As fortune would have it both bullets struck the dog. There was an empty click from the gun no matter how many times he pulled the trigger after that. The dog released his grip. The hairy leg and flashy shoe lowering avoiding the whining, convulsing body on the floor. The overwhelming odor of skunk swirling around the room. The remaining dog growling, snarling rabidly.  
Keeping his eyes on the twisting shoe, Buddy Joe lowered his quaking hand searching for the assault rifle. His sphincter twisting painfully clockwise.  
The head of a gorilla emerged into sight. A long black, hairy arm terminating in a bloody, pink, high-voltage, electrical glove extending up to the elbow slowly came into view. Arm curling the fingers spreading palm down on the crest of the hairy head. The figure, sporting a sequined, pink tutu stepped fully into the room. The head of a Mexican girl sagging, lolling from the sheet wrapped her, cradled in one of the hairy arms. With one quick jerk, the hollow head was thrust back, and a shiny black face grinning in a maniacal manner exposing red teeth appearing in the open throat. The red teeth parted with a cackle sounding oddly like Yee Haw!  
Buddy Joe’s sphincter twisted counterclockwise imploding. He shat himself. His eyes rolled up into his head. The colonel couldn’t control the pattern of senseless words pouring from his mouth. He sensed his body hurtling toward a black pit his demon buddies dancing, cavorting.  
#  
Earlier that day FBI agents, who were waiting for a warrant to search Buddy Joe’s residence, were wrapping up their confiscation of computers and other suspicious materials at Linda Jo’s house as she was defiantly welcoming guests for a luncheon. The four women who accepted the invitation were on her payroll, or beholden to her in some manner. They filed in through the door resolutely chattering up a storm, complimenting Linda Jo on the delicate lacework in the Victorian-era drapes, the magnificent, mahogany Chippendale furniture, glaring at the intruders over tiny aperitifs. Later the Mexican maid was sent packing, the lights went out, the doors locked, the security system activated, and Linda Jo’s lonely binge began as soon as her guests were off the property.  
Linda Jo was confident she must have read a similar scene in a book sometime, but she stripped in front of the full-length mirror in Chippendale-style, mahogany frame, pouring a crystal globe of Baron de Sigognac from the crystal decanter, conducting a bit of self-assessment and examination. Not bad for sixty-something she thought, lighting a cigarette.  
Linda Jo felt sure few people would guess between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six she gave birth to five children. Despondent, she concluded all the nip-and-tuck was worth the money but thought she could no longer rely on her face, or her body to acquire much useful capital in such a place as a courtroom. The big hair needed to be trimmed, the fake eyelashes and fingernails discarded, the jewelry minimized.  
She turned her head watching the dangling, diamond earrings, and necklace sparkle. The tiny glittering angels with golden hair, gossamer gowns, and gleaming wings gaily fluttering around, plucking the strings of their harps, grinning in admiration.  
Linda Jo wept, not in regret for her crimes, but because she was not as smart as her angels had led her to believe. Making an effort to remove the pancake makeup, she phoned the organizers to cancel her appearance at the revival. She wandered from room to room drinking, smoking, sobbing until she passed out on a spacious, four-poster bed upstairs.  
Waking in the fog and confusion of a hangover hours later, Linda Jo couldn’t reconcile in her mind the direction of the loud and persistent barking. The celestial music from the harps the little angels thought comforted her, confounded the problem. At the first sounds of the dogs, she staggered to the south end of the dark house peering out toward the big tent and parking area down by the highway gate where people were arriving for the revival.  
Seeing no evidence of a disturbance there as the first shots were fired, Linda Jo struggled to untangle a fingernail from the lace curtain hurriedly tripping to the northeast corner of the house checking out the barn, the ranch-hand quarters. She was concerned to see very few lights illuminating the growing gloom.  
She anxiously searched for and quickly found a dark, floor-length terry-cloth robe with a hood, hurried down the stairs. She gathered a mobile phone for one breast pocket and a Derringer for the other. Taking a bracing swig, she tucked a black enamel flask of Baron de Sigognac, a pack of cigarettes and lighter into pockets at her waist. She stepped into a pair of fur-lined booties she kept handy for impromptu outdoor excursions, disabling the alarm, tripping out the back door onto the big deck.  
Linda Jo screeched exactly as a lonely banshee would screech if it crept secretively from the deepest, darkest depths of hell abruptly into the brightest lights of scores of news cameras and hundreds of reporters as the motion-sensor lights flooded the deck. The angels flickering on wings around her had been hesitant to leave the house for fear of being seen, but the alarming circumstances seemed to warrant it. However, when Linda Jo screamed they instantly abandoned her with a discordant twang of broken harp strings.  
“Good riddance!” Linda Jo muttered.  
Pausing in an attempt to regain her wits amid a cloud of rank skunk odor, she crept toward the east end of the deck, and the stairs. Linda Jo peered to the south to make sure she couldn’t be seen by the revivalists. Brief scrutiny confirmed she was too high up the slope of the hill and too far to the east to be in their range of vision (but she was sure not outside their hearing).  
Fumbling for her phone, she speed-dialed her daughter. She needed help from anyone but the cops. Linda Jo briefly wondered if Astarte had recovered from being smacked in the face by that flying bull’s ear at the rodeo Monday night. She lit a cigarette tamping at her mouth with a fingertip making sure she hadn’t just split one of her lips. She twirled to examine the barn and corrals. Pulling the hood over her disheveled, luminous, platinum hair, Linda Jo took a step down. She took a puff, another step looking north at Buddy Joe’s compound.  
Just as Astarte answered her phone, Linda Jo tossed the phone high, losing control of the banshee within. She unleashed a screech even more high-pitched and louder than the last one glimpsing a huge, inhuman, black form wearing glittering pumps and a tutu. It lumbered from the shooting gallery carrying a body in a sheet over its shoulder. It was brazenly firing an automatic weapon sparkling flashes under the bright security lights. Urine shooting down her leg, Linda Jo watched in horror as the beast ran down to the east into the darkness of night one of the dogs hot on its heels.  
Speechless, knowing Astarte had caller ID and assuming she probably got the idea help was needed, Linda Jo fled post-haste to the barn. She hoped to find Bill and Travis sober enough to give her some immediate support and protection from whatever was going on. Consumed with panic, she was unaware of the pandemonium breaking loose at the big tent, the jabbering, babbling, gibbering, gesticulating, wide-eyed hoard of people pounding up the hill toward her house.  
Reaching the barn door, Linda Jo rolled it open. Her eyes flying wide at the sound of the rapidly approaching swarm of shouting people. Blinking away a dislodged false-eyelash, planting the cigarette between her lips, slipping inside in hopes of hiding. Linda Jo rolled the door shut.  
The gruesome sight of Travis and Bill battered, mutilated, and dead instantly inflated a balloon of air in Linda Jo’s stomach. She felt it rushing up to her throat into her mouth. It blasted through her lips exploding in a blood-curdling scream the like of which, she was sure, had never been heard on earth. A gut-wrenching, throat-scouring, gushing fountain of puke following. Linda Jo released a tiny fart just as all the lights on the property blinked out. She fainted. The cigarette landed in some oily sawdust.  
#  
Billie began to reassess her choice of words in the characterization of the events that might transpire at the revival as an ‘uncommon spectacle’ when the second ambulance heading north toward Interstate 40 and Albuquerque passed them on the road. When she and Sam arrived at the gate to the Lagash property the entire hill, draped with billowing streams of yellow, crime-scene tape, was lit up with the flashing lights of fire trucks, State Police, and Sheriff Deputy’s cars. An additional ambulance screamed into the rising and falling wail of feedback from the sound system in the collapsed, big tent, and the distant baying of hounds. Covering her nose with a handkerchief against the scent of skunk and smoke, Billie was sure her choice was inadequate.  
Sam drove his Volkswagen back to the north to the end of the long line of cars parked on the shoulder of the highway, and they joined the other curious spectators. No one knew anything for certain, but the recent, scandalous accusations against the Lagashs were central to all the rumor and speculation flying rampant on the road. Billie dressed demurely in a dark pantsuit, a pale, high-collared blouse and low heels in the style favored by the current US Secretary of State, did most of the chatting as they slowly made their way amiably along the crowded highway.  
In his signature dark jeans, linen sports jacket, white shirt, straw hat, and cordovan cowboy boots, Sam was the target of surreptitious flirting from a few of the women. Billie thought the bruised face and limp provoked a lustful need to comfort him. She noticed more than one delicate hand caringly caressing his broad shoulders.  
As they neared the gate to the property, Billie spotted a tall, slender, African American man dressed in civilian clothes and straw cowboy hat ambling down the drive. She surmised from his manner he was suggesting people move along and let the police do their work.  
“Isn’t that Eduardo Sanchez, the State cop from Gurd’s crew?” Sam whispered.  
“Yes, I believe it is,” Billie responded fingering the high, white-lace collar held in place by a silver and turquoise choker.  
“Let’s see if we can persuade him to fill us in,” she said as together they strode forward on the pavement.  
Eduardo spotted them before they could approach and address him privately. Signaling silence with a finger to his lips, he hurried forward to escort Sam and Billie quietly back to the Volkswagen. Billie noted Eduardo tentatively rubbing his stomach, wiping his mouth with a red bandanna, and his nose with a white handkerchief.  
“Do you know what’s happened?” Billie inquired quietly gazing at him intently eyes and silver reflecting the flashing lights.  
“Sasquatch,” Eduardo whispered looking down fiddling with his bandanna and handkerchief, “in a tutu and loaded with firecrackers.”  
Billie gazed at Eduardo as though she wasn’t surprised Sasquatch was involved waiting for him to continue. She watched Eduardo gathering himself looking around to make sure they were out of hearing range of the closest people.  
“I was here from the beginning of it all,” Eduardo explained, his voice low, gesturing discreetly toward the big tent. “Me and half those people inside the gate came here mostly to ogle and gawk at the Lagashs, and Dumuntzi. You know, just to see if they looked like they could’ve done all the illegal things they’ve been accused of doin’. We didn’t come to get saved or anything.  
“I started edging for the tent door not long after sundown just as Senator Dumuntzi finished the opening prayer. Very touching you might guess… his son in the morgue and all getting run over the minute he walked out of the hospital the other day all that stuff with him destroyed. That’s when the guard dogs started barking like crazy, and then I heard the first shot a minute or two after that,” he continued voice low, blood vessels in his neck bulging, eyes roving from Billie to Sam. “The dogs the guests brought with them in the kennel started barking, howling and carrying on too.”  
“Some people say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but whoever said it wasn’t in the criminal investigation business,” Eduardo said in a strained voice as though releasing pent up tension. “You can never know too much is what I say. I know that the shooting gallery behind his house is full of guns. There ain’t no more firearms allowed on that whole property. I know because someone I know works as a cleaning lady in Miss Lagash’s house. And I know that the gallery is soundproof because one of my informants helped build it, so a door had to be open, and I know the sound of a forty-five caliber pistol when I hear it. So I took off out of the tent at the first report and was a good way up ahead of the others on the gravel road up to his place not long after the second shot was fired. Then come two more shots, quick one right after the other. I was about up level to her house when I heard a scream from behind it. All the lights came on outside, and a bunch of the folks following me tore off that way. I kept on for his place where I could see all the outdoor lights were on, the light was coming from an open door in the gallery.  
“Then out that door,” Eduardo paused to tip his hat back drawing his first breath since he started talking, eyes flickering from Billie to Sam to the house on the hill and back to Billie, “came Bigfoot in a skirt and high heels. He set off a big pack of firecrackers, which all the idiots thought was an automatic firearm I guess because half of them hit the dirt howling for their Lord and Savior, or screaming profanities on their way down to the ground. Then Bigfoot set off down the hill carrying a body toward the Rio Grande with a dog hot on his heels, and the door slammed shut. Then came a second scream from behind her place. All the idiots got to their feet praising the Lord and Savior or mumbling obscenities, making sure they were seeing what they were seeing, and the skunk smell hit us like a flock of buzzards descending on a carcass.   
“We all stood like a bunch of numskulls rooted to the ground too afraid to move in any direction,” Eduardo muttered. “All the lights went out, and I looked back at the tent when I heard three loud pops, and watched the three center support poles down the middle collapse. Then’s when the real pandemonium set in.  
“Everybody took a big breath and they all just scattered. The ones that lost their curiosity ran howling back down the hill, got in their cars, and drove off. That pile-up down the road,” he pointed off to the southeast, “could have been worse, but no lives lost.  
“A couple of the crazier ones frothing at the mouth got their hounds from the kennel down at the gate and took off down the arroyo, probably packin’ heat with God in their hearts. That’s the dogs you hear way off over there toward the river,” he said exhaling losing momentum pointing to the east eyes continuing to flicker from Billie to Sam. “Some more ran off to investigate the screams, and others to find out what happened in the shooting gallery. I guess some ran off looking for the power source.”  
“I considered playing cop,” he said solemnly, dabbing at his mouth and beard with the bandanna. “You know, trying to keep them all from mucking up the crime scenes, and otherwise acting sensibly, but I gave up that idea real quick. It’s okay when you’re wearing a uniform of authority, and have some weapons to choose from to deal with such situations, but I didn’t, so I didn’t. I decided to let the Cimarron security guards from down at the tent mess with it if they wanted to. And I was feeling a little sick from the skunk stench, so I waited around down there at the tent to hear what the investigators reported, and that’s when I really got sick.  
“I can only say the Lagashs were both carted off in ambulances. The daughter showed up about then and she had to be hauled off too, hysterical. What a sight!” he said weakly leaning against the Volkswagen eyes still shifting from Sam to Billie, “The two hired men are dead, mutilated. I can’t muster the enthusiasm for details that some people can… and did. The coroners are down there with the detectives.”  
“Then, as if the night wasn’t crazy enough, some of the folks run off after Bigfoot come back with the news there’s a big load of heroin and guns down by the river,” Eduardo sighed, shaking his head, his staring eyes dropping to the ground. “Albuquerque will never be the same.”  
“May I offer you something to settle your stomach?” Billie asked opening her purse.  
“Yes, Dama I’d be grateful,” Eduardo replied raising his eyes. “If it won’t affect my driving.”  
“It won’t,” Billie replied retrieving a small, plastic compartmentalized pill case. “It’s the dark green lozenge.  
“You must be relieved not to have such police matters to deal with now you’re retired,” Billie offered in a commiserating manner watching to be sure Eduardo took the correct one.  
“Yeah,” he replied sucking on the lozenge. “I’m glad Gurd is the only one authorized by American Indians to excavate skeletons down on the dig. I’ve had enough of dead bodies in any form.  
“You know, speaking of Gurd, reminds me of something odd earlier this evening when all the busy-bodies were jawing in the tent before the ruckus started,” Eduardo sighed thoughtfully, cocking his head to the right, relaxing sucking, gesturing feebly off toward the milling, jabbering evangelicals, medics, law enforcement officers and flashing lights. “Half of them were talking about the Lagashs and their alleged crimes. The other half were talking about Gurd going to work at Señora Karabaldo’s children’s clinic.  
“All the guys on the crew have tried to put to rest the bad rumors about Gurd for years to no effect. He’s got a temper, Gurd does,” Eduardo said in a reflective fashion staring down at the bandanna he was folding.  
“You could trust the guy with your life, your children’s life. I would. Now the rumors are spreading about Gurd, and the children’s clinic,” Eduardo glanced back up at Billie as if seeing her in a new light, “people were asking me tonight if all those good things we’ve been saying about him were really true. People who once thought the Lagashs were angels and Gurd was a demon. So, now they’re all doing a flip-flop with Gurd being the angel.  
“The falling Lagashs are pulling Senator Dumuntzi down with them and if the governor survives she’ll not see another term,” Eduardo sighed, shaking his head. “Hell and havoc are the current state of affairs in about a dozen Federal agencies. Lots of congressional investigations are in the near future. Seems like New Mexico, maybe the world, has been turned upside down, topsy-turvy, on its head in the space of about ten days… since the biggest wildfire in the state’s history started,” gazing at Sam, recalling Gurd had mentioned Sam had been up in the forest that day.  
“Some people were saying the fire and earthquakes unleashed some kind of supernatural force,” Eduardo murmuring gazing north toward Las Conchas.  
“Justice,” he concluded. “Supernatural or not, it’s Justice that’s been unleashed.”

Epilogue  
The various psychiatrist and mental health specialists hired by lawyers for both the defense and prosecution declared Buddy Joe Lagash incapable of determining the difference between right and wrong. Curious forensic psychologists were unable to identify just when in his past that condition had taken hold of him. He was hauled away to an institution where he was imprisoned and studied for the brief remainder of his life.  
Linda Jo was tried in a court of law and found guilty on several counts of malicious computer hacking, mail fraud, and money laundering. However, the jury was unable to decide on her involvement in her husband’s alleged human trafficking, drug trafficking, dealing in guns and arms with Mexican drug cartels, and Middle Eastern terrorists, or the mysterious deaths of the men on their property.  
Linda Jo was considered too devious to be permitted to live in society outside prison ever again and sentenced to life without parole. The Lagash name was added to the very long, long list of evangelical fallen angels and was never again spoken in public among the circles of The Holy, not because they were criminals and hypocrites, but because they got caught.  
Astarte might have survived the public disgrace if all her parent’s assets had not been seized. She only just managed to continue her practice far away in Seattle after she changed her name and restricted her nocturnal lawlessness to terrorizing domestic animals.  
Sam Hat was committed to his veterinarian practice, in his spare time taking recovering animals to visit patients in Senora Karabaldo’s children’s clinic where Gurd became the principal traditional healer specializing in treating childhood post-traumatic stress disorder. Gurd’s dissertation was accepted, and he received his Ph.D., but the dissertation inspired a lot of controversy among the powers that be in the social sciences whose authority was challenged.  
Gurd and Sam were married in December 2013 when New Mexico decided same-sex couples could enjoy the same civil rights as heterosexual couples. They adopted Paul and Pedro Menendez who recovered under Gurd’s care with the assistance of Violetta, Billie, Mia, and Rosario. They purchased some land behind Sam’s house where they built a barn for Bashful and her family.  
Gurd never forgot the man who set him on the endless road to his recovery from PTSD. He always kept the dark blue bandanna with him. Unknown to Gurd, who believed he was dead, Ethan was dragged from the eastern bank of The Rio Grande and smuggled away from New Mexico to Scotland on the small private jet of Nash, Neve’s older sister.  
Nash’s two older sons, who were wealthy and influential figures successful in operating on both sides of Scotland’s law, acquired documents and records proving Ethan was born and educated in Scotland and named Trick Gloag. Trick moved Carousel to a secluded, ancient hill fort on Nash’s property where he continued to combat environmental injustice.


End file.
